The Tiger Master

Chapter 2: The Mansion

Chapter 2: The Mansion

Katia

Around me, there is only darkness. The quilt that I’m hiding under is so thick and heavy that it blocks out even the brightest afternoon light. I’m shrouded in a thick black nothing, just like a child, safe and loved, under bedcovers after their parents have tucked them snugly in.

But I don’t feel safe and loved. I feel the opposite.

I am hiding because Mama is speaking in English again, this time with a man on the front porch who seems to be selling some kind of new machine. I bet the only reason he came to our house was he saw how big it was and decided that rich people might actually spend money on his stupid machine.

This quilt is the only thing that muffles the noise. I can’t stand to hear her speak it -- whenever the foreign words flow out of her mouth, I get a bothered feeling in the pit of my stomach. It feels like she has betrayed Russia whenever she speaks the language here.

Besides, English is an ugly language. The words are abrupt and choppy, the dialogue doesn’t flow. The language itself sounds beaten-down and weak, as if the word‘s coming out of the speakers mouth are trivial and meaningless. It is not strong and beautiful and majestic, because it is not Russian.

It’s getting hard to breath under here now. The quilt does it’s job too well -- it not only blocks out light and sound, but fresh air. I breath in the staleness of it, even though it has already been used. It tastes warm and cloying and wet, not at all pleasant.

When I start to get lightheaded, I abandon the blanket and toss it off the side of the couch, squeezing my hands over my ears to block out the noise of their chatter and gulping in mouthfuls of fresh air.

The man, who hadn’t noticed me before, peers over Mama’s shoulder and shoots me a funny look. I stop gasping long enough to glare back at him, letting my eyebrows drop into a disapproving stare. He looks away quickly, back at my Mama, though his eyes wander back to me every other minute.

I wish he’d stop looking at me like that.

“Mama,” I call to my mother in Russian. “Make the man be quiet.”

I know in my mind I sound childish, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Now the man looks even more surprised. Where we live now, there are not many immigrants. They are all white, Southern people who have seemed to live in this same place since the beginning of time. But I am still surprised that he had not caught my mother’s accent. Even I know it is heavy, by the slur of her words and the pauses between sentences as she thinks of how to say something.

I wonder if the man is one of the Stupids. 

Stupid is one of three English words that I could not seem to erase from my brain. I know what it means well, after seeing so much of it in this town.

The Stupids are the people who live on the farms, the ones who can’t afford running water and food from the supermarket. Most of them only went to school for a few years, and don’t seem to know how to behave like decent people. They even slur their own pitiful language, speaking with a heavy accent that they just decided to invent themselves. 

I feel slightly disappointed when I notice that he’s dressed too nice to be a Stupid. He’s wearing a prim, powder blue suit and a fedora cocked jauntily on his head. How pretentious.

But I guess he’s better than The Stupids. They can only afford rags that they pass off as clothes.

I’m lucky to be wealthy. I’m not sure what I would do if I didn’t even have legitimate clothing.

Mama looks angry at me, probably because I obviously unsettled the man. She glares over her shoulder, looking menacing with her sharp brow pointed downward and hawk eyes staring straight through me. I look away, because I know if I hold her stare any longer I’ll start to actually feel embarrassed.

My arms are too tired to cover my ears any longer. I let them drop and try my best to ignore the noise they are making. I think about Russia to occupy myself, and how once I turn eighteen in three years I will go back there.

“Katia?”

I look up from picking at my nails at the sound of my name. Mama glares back at me disapprovingly. 

Apparently, I wasn’t going to be let off easily. What a pity.

“Yes, Mama?” I say sweetly. She likes to hear my voice happy. It makes her think that maybe my mindset about America has changed.

It hasn’t.

It doesn’t work on her this time, though. Maybe she’s finally gotten the trick. “You do not behave like that in front of guests,” she tells me, words cutting and severe. I do not care about their tone, just as long as she doesn’t try speaking to me in English. That’s the worst punishment -- that’s when I know I’m really in trouble.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” I say, even though I’m not sorry at all. I hang my head for added effect. Then, with just a little sass that I can‘t quite retain: “I wasn’t aware that he was a guest.”

When I look back up, Mama slaps me across the face.

It shocks me a bit. She hasn’t slapped me or Lonya since we were small children.

“You do not talk to me like that,” she hisses in my face, looking like a cat with her slitted eyes and clenched face. “I am your mother. I feed you, I clothe you, I brought you into this world.” She gives a laugh. It is not humorous in the slightest. “I even pay for your ballet lessons. Five every week! I guess you’re not aware of how much that costs.”

“The ballet was better in Russia,” I murmur, despite myself. I brace myself for another slap, clenching my eyes tight.

It doesn’t come. When I open back up my eyes, Mama is looking at me incredulously.

“You spoiled child,” she says softly, shaking her head in disbelief.

I watch her go as she walks back into the kitchen. I try to feel bad about what I just did, but the emotions never come.

Maybe Mama is right. Maybe I’m a bad person for not being happy about moving to America. Maybe I’m an insolent child for not learning the language. Maybe I’m spoiled for not thanking her for what I have.

But then I think of all that I’ve lost coming here, and I don’t feel so bad.