I would write you a long, detailed letter, but you don't know how to use email, and in these new circumstances you're unlikely to manage setting up a mobile app so that we could correspond like normal people.
Whenever I talk to you on the phone, the only thing you ask is when we're coming back. While I'm trying to come up with a decent answer in my head, you go through the standard list of questions, from “How's work?” to “And what are you doing there?”. I give you the same answers every time, and you still ask the same questions every time.
I would answer that I have so much to do here that I don't even have time to sit on the couch. By the way, we never bought that couch. We never got around to it.
Our town may be small, but the Russian-speaking community is young and extremely active. So active that it involves everything that moves in community activities. And whatever doesn't move gets pushed and involved anyway. They got hold of me too and drew me into preparing for the Festival of Immigrants.
If you listened to me carefully, you would definitely ask, “How so?”. But you would be so busy complaining about the district clinic that you still wouldn't hear that I've joined an amateur dance group.
Yes, I know that when I was a child I got kicked out of dance classes for having a non-dancer's figure, but you know, Mom, we're in Paraguay, and here such things don't matter at all. The main thing is to enjoy what you're doing instead of working yourself half to death in pursuit of a good grade. Disfrutá, in short.
So the girls and I gather on a hillside overlooking Argentina, almost like back in Kolomenskoye. Or in the city park under the palm trees. We drink tea and rehearse. It's a lot of fun. And what magnificent sarafans we've sewn with our own hands! Yes, yes, at this point you'll tell me that the last time I embarrassed you with my sewing projects was in seventh grade, but let's skip the criticism for now — the sarafans really turned out quite decent. Nobody complained, because there is nowhere else to get any here anyway. And the kokoshniks we came up with are works of art altogether.
At this point you'll probably put on your glasses, look at the photos disapprovingly, and climb onto your favorite art historian's high horse. You'll give me a lecture about the traditions of Russian folk crafts and will certainly point out that such a depiction of kokoshniks does not correspond to historical reality. But let's consider our kokoshniks a contemporary interpretation and generalization of cultural traditions. And besides, in my opinion these are the best kokoshniks in our Latin American republic.
Then you'll wave your hand with your trademark gesture and say that one shouldn't be so self-confident. But I'm in Paraguay, and here even stranger things are possible. And I'm not going to argue with you about it. Lately I've grown tired of proving things to people. There are so many people in our little community who love proving things to each other that we sometimes even end up fighting. And what is there to argue about? We all like and dislike different things about Paraguay. As soon as we fail to agree on something, we start throwing glasses at each other and punching each other in the face. It's alright though — we always make up afterward. We still have to rehearse together. The Festival of Immigrants unites us even in our quarrels.
I agree, this is nothing like my Moscow life. Everything here is completely different, turned upside down. But somehow I even like it, and I feel at home here. And the people around me are good. We may argue sometimes, but we're learning to live in peace and be good neighbors.
And then you'll ask when we're coming back. I'll shrug and say: I don't know. Do we need to? First we'll do the Festival of Immigrants, then we'll start preparing for San Juan, and after that the next carnival will be just around the corner. And I desperately want to dance at the carnival — I've already made up my mind. Besides, after the Paraguayan fields, Moscow life no longer feels like something I can carry on my shoulders. It's as if I've outgrown this kokoshnik.
But you won't hear me, because you'll start crying and tell me something about roots and how a person belongs where they were born. And I'll smile, nod, and whistle quietly to myself:
