Rhoden & Steinberg - NYE snippet
Oct. 7th, 2021 06:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dreemyweird When the clock strikes twelve, you should clink your glass against mine and make a wish, Rubinstein explained to him during his first New Year’s Eve in Kronstadt.
They were gathered in Nella Vinogradova’s room in a communal flat on Küchelbecker Street. Outside their windows, the city was full of the smoke of fireworks, drunken yelling, and the ghostly glittering of freshly fallen snow.
What do you mean? Asked Rhoden. What kind of wish?
Venlish winter festivities were still rather odd to him then. Back home, the only seasonal celebration had been Talvepäike – “the winter sun”. Talvepäike was a solemn, ritualistic affair, and it didn’t involve one tenth of the revelry that, Rhoden was beginning to understand, was inherent to the Venlish New Year.
Any kind, said Rubinstein, pouring him a full flute of honey-coloured champagne. Have you never made a wish?
Not like that.
We’ll change that, Arno. Today will be your first.
The truth was, he’d spent so long not wishing for anything at all that nothing readily sprang to mind. Rubinstein knew that, of course. The whole thing was a ploy to get Rhoden out of that mindset, out of the mindset where nothing he felt mattered and the mere act of wanting was an unthinkable transgression.
Freedom for Yoldia, he thought. That was a familiar desire, well-explored and worn at the edges like a lover’s letter. Even the grief and anger it brought with it were a comfort.
Don’t tell me, said Rubinstein. You’re not supposed to say it.
Rhoden rather thought he didn’t have to say it for Rubinstein to know.
Now, years later, this tradition seems silly. Making wishes, he feels, is for children. And, perhaps, for Leon Rubinstein.
But it’s hard not to think of what he would wish for. If he were the kind of man to make wishes.
Yulia is busy decorating an ugly little blue spruce Leon found in a nearby park. Between the sparkling glass baubles and the plastic red stars she hangs something that looks suspiciously like a trilobite fossil. Rhoden is sure he’d find a goat bone or three if he looked, too, not to mention some of the less valuable pottery shards.
Leon himself is in the kitchen making latkes. He started on them a couple of weeks ago, during Hanukkah, and simply never stopped since despite running out of eggs.
Steinberg’s teaching Iakov how to cut… something, out of newspaper. Rhoden would say these are angels, except that they seem to be acquiring greater and greater numbers of limbs with each cut and fold. He squints a little and laughs to himself. Tetramorphs. They’re tetramorphs.
Steinberg’s previous New Years must have offered little in terms of amusement. And with a little sibling to entertain, he would’ve been desperate for something that could pass for a festive toy. Of course, being Steinberg, he didn’t settle for anything as simple as a traditional angelic silhouette.
Rhoden doesn’t often feel angry at Steinberg’s parents. Mostly, he tries not to think about them at all. But he is angry now, and he doesn’t entirely know what to do with this feeling.
Eventually he settles on retrieving a parcel carefully wrapped in crackling brown paper from the kitchen and plopping it on the desk in front of Steinberg, sending one or two tetramorphs flying.
“My apologies,” says he, and catches one with his good hand. Its wings are transparent in the light of the lamp sitting on a pile of books between Iakov and Steinberg. One of the wings clearly reads, in fuzzy black letters: the glory of our people on the threshold of the Revolu–
“This is for you,” Rhoden tells Steinberg, tapping the parcel with one finger for emphasis.
“You didn’t have to get me anything, Dr Rhoden,” murmurs Steinberg, and goes a warm shade of pink. The kid has a long way to go before he learns to accept other people’s friendship towards him.
Granted, Rhoden himself feels more than a little embarrassed. He prefers to do these things in more – in more subtle ways, usually. But there’s something about the kid that makes him act like a sap – and damn it, there’s still a tide of anger lapping at his heart at the thought of Esther playing with Steinberg’s cut-outs in a cold, empty house –
“It’s nothing,” he says, and crosses his arms. “Don’t thank me. You should probably open it now, though; Dr Rubinstein will want you two in the kitchen for wine and latkes soon.”
Steinberg carefully unwraps the parcel. Inside is a burgundy wool winter coat (Eastern Niemcish; he had to pull some black-market contacts for this one), a large blue tin of cinnamon-and-sugar biscuits, and a small card with a Dorpat cityscape on it (Rhoden’s handwriting is fairly miniature, but he had to spend some time last night making sure that what he had to say would fit on the back of the card).
“You seem perpetually cold,” Rhoden supplies needlessly. “And you need to eat more, even if it’s just biscuits.”
Rubinstein teased him for this choice of gifts, calling him a mother hen and saying that soon he’d be scolding Steinberg for going out without a hat. It was a little humiliating but not entirely unfair. Sometimes Rhoden does want to scold Steinberg for not wearing a hat in December.
Gods, he’s turning into someone he doesn’t entirely recognize.
Running one hand over the fabric of the coat, the kid looks up at Rhoden. He’s beaming, his freckled nose scrunched up in happiness.
“Thank you, doctor,” he says in a low voice. “As always, you’re so much kinder to me than you need to be.”
It’s not a kindness, Rhoden wants to correct. It’s normal. It’s what other people expect and take for granted. I’m not kind; it’s your family that lacked the love and compassion anyone should have for their children.
But there’s more in Steinberg’s expression than just gratitude. There’s a lot of – a lot of affection, more than Rhoden was entirely prepared for. Steinberg seems delighted not so much because he got a gift but because it was he, Rhoden, who gave him one.
I’m not mothering him, Rhoden protested to Rubinstein. It’s only that he deserves a good New Year, for once.
That’s not what I see, laughed Rubinstein. And that’s not what the kid will see, either. It’s fine, Arno. You obviously love him. You don’t have to feel ashamed. You know that, right?
Rhoden puts his hand on Steinberg’s shoulder and squeezes it a little.
“Come on,” he tells Steinberg and Iakov. “I can hear him swear from here. He must’ve burned a latke. Let’s go give him a hand.”
That night, standing in the kitchen with a glass of Rubinstein’s apple wine in one hand and a newspaper tetramorph in the other, Rhoden doesn’t make a wish.
But if he were to make a wish, he thinks – if he were superstitious enough or optimistic enough for that – he knows what it would be.
I want him to be happy, he thinks fiercely, looking at Steinberg. Iakov just made a joke and the kid’s laughing at it so hard that his wine has gone up his nose.
Yes, Rhoden agrees, like this. But always. He has suffered enough. My wish is for his happiness; nothing else.
Rubinstein shouts out a toast. The clock strikes twelve.
They were gathered in Nella Vinogradova’s room in a communal flat on Küchelbecker Street. Outside their windows, the city was full of the smoke of fireworks, drunken yelling, and the ghostly glittering of freshly fallen snow.
What do you mean? Asked Rhoden. What kind of wish?
Venlish winter festivities were still rather odd to him then. Back home, the only seasonal celebration had been Talvepäike – “the winter sun”. Talvepäike was a solemn, ritualistic affair, and it didn’t involve one tenth of the revelry that, Rhoden was beginning to understand, was inherent to the Venlish New Year.
Any kind, said Rubinstein, pouring him a full flute of honey-coloured champagne. Have you never made a wish?
Not like that.
We’ll change that, Arno. Today will be your first.
The truth was, he’d spent so long not wishing for anything at all that nothing readily sprang to mind. Rubinstein knew that, of course. The whole thing was a ploy to get Rhoden out of that mindset, out of the mindset where nothing he felt mattered and the mere act of wanting was an unthinkable transgression.
Freedom for Yoldia, he thought. That was a familiar desire, well-explored and worn at the edges like a lover’s letter. Even the grief and anger it brought with it were a comfort.
Don’t tell me, said Rubinstein. You’re not supposed to say it.
Rhoden rather thought he didn’t have to say it for Rubinstein to know.
Now, years later, this tradition seems silly. Making wishes, he feels, is for children. And, perhaps, for Leon Rubinstein.
But it’s hard not to think of what he would wish for. If he were the kind of man to make wishes.
Yulia is busy decorating an ugly little blue spruce Leon found in a nearby park. Between the sparkling glass baubles and the plastic red stars she hangs something that looks suspiciously like a trilobite fossil. Rhoden is sure he’d find a goat bone or three if he looked, too, not to mention some of the less valuable pottery shards.
Leon himself is in the kitchen making latkes. He started on them a couple of weeks ago, during Hanukkah, and simply never stopped since despite running out of eggs.
Steinberg’s teaching Iakov how to cut… something, out of newspaper. Rhoden would say these are angels, except that they seem to be acquiring greater and greater numbers of limbs with each cut and fold. He squints a little and laughs to himself. Tetramorphs. They’re tetramorphs.
Steinberg’s previous New Years must have offered little in terms of amusement. And with a little sibling to entertain, he would’ve been desperate for something that could pass for a festive toy. Of course, being Steinberg, he didn’t settle for anything as simple as a traditional angelic silhouette.
Rhoden doesn’t often feel angry at Steinberg’s parents. Mostly, he tries not to think about them at all. But he is angry now, and he doesn’t entirely know what to do with this feeling.
Eventually he settles on retrieving a parcel carefully wrapped in crackling brown paper from the kitchen and plopping it on the desk in front of Steinberg, sending one or two tetramorphs flying.
“My apologies,” says he, and catches one with his good hand. Its wings are transparent in the light of the lamp sitting on a pile of books between Iakov and Steinberg. One of the wings clearly reads, in fuzzy black letters: the glory of our people on the threshold of the Revolu–
“This is for you,” Rhoden tells Steinberg, tapping the parcel with one finger for emphasis.
“You didn’t have to get me anything, Dr Rhoden,” murmurs Steinberg, and goes a warm shade of pink. The kid has a long way to go before he learns to accept other people’s friendship towards him.
Granted, Rhoden himself feels more than a little embarrassed. He prefers to do these things in more – in more subtle ways, usually. But there’s something about the kid that makes him act like a sap – and damn it, there’s still a tide of anger lapping at his heart at the thought of Esther playing with Steinberg’s cut-outs in a cold, empty house –
“It’s nothing,” he says, and crosses his arms. “Don’t thank me. You should probably open it now, though; Dr Rubinstein will want you two in the kitchen for wine and latkes soon.”
Steinberg carefully unwraps the parcel. Inside is a burgundy wool winter coat (Eastern Niemcish; he had to pull some black-market contacts for this one), a large blue tin of cinnamon-and-sugar biscuits, and a small card with a Dorpat cityscape on it (Rhoden’s handwriting is fairly miniature, but he had to spend some time last night making sure that what he had to say would fit on the back of the card).
“You seem perpetually cold,” Rhoden supplies needlessly. “And you need to eat more, even if it’s just biscuits.”
Rubinstein teased him for this choice of gifts, calling him a mother hen and saying that soon he’d be scolding Steinberg for going out without a hat. It was a little humiliating but not entirely unfair. Sometimes Rhoden does want to scold Steinberg for not wearing a hat in December.
Gods, he’s turning into someone he doesn’t entirely recognize.
Running one hand over the fabric of the coat, the kid looks up at Rhoden. He’s beaming, his freckled nose scrunched up in happiness.
“Thank you, doctor,” he says in a low voice. “As always, you’re so much kinder to me than you need to be.”
It’s not a kindness, Rhoden wants to correct. It’s normal. It’s what other people expect and take for granted. I’m not kind; it’s your family that lacked the love and compassion anyone should have for their children.
But there’s more in Steinberg’s expression than just gratitude. There’s a lot of – a lot of affection, more than Rhoden was entirely prepared for. Steinberg seems delighted not so much because he got a gift but because it was he, Rhoden, who gave him one.
I’m not mothering him, Rhoden protested to Rubinstein. It’s only that he deserves a good New Year, for once.
That’s not what I see, laughed Rubinstein. And that’s not what the kid will see, either. It’s fine, Arno. You obviously love him. You don’t have to feel ashamed. You know that, right?
Rhoden puts his hand on Steinberg’s shoulder and squeezes it a little.
“Come on,” he tells Steinberg and Iakov. “I can hear him swear from here. He must’ve burned a latke. Let’s go give him a hand.”
That night, standing in the kitchen with a glass of Rubinstein’s apple wine in one hand and a newspaper tetramorph in the other, Rhoden doesn’t make a wish.
But if he were to make a wish, he thinks – if he were superstitious enough or optimistic enough for that – he knows what it would be.
I want him to be happy, he thinks fiercely, looking at Steinberg. Iakov just made a joke and the kid’s laughing at it so hard that his wine has gone up his nose.
Yes, Rhoden agrees, like this. But always. He has suffered enough. My wish is for his happiness; nothing else.
Rubinstein shouts out a toast. The clock strikes twelve.
