conversations in an ukrainian bookstore



"ah, anna!" katerina says.  "what's this?  they want an ...
'invoice'?"  books are shipped, but little money 
returns -- it's been two months since a new capitalist 
system.  

stroking the keys of an adding machine, she makes sums from 
figures, determining their profit.  the desk is strewn with
loose, odd-sized scraps of paper.  "our finances 
are in a terrible state," natalia says, her short pageboy 
swishing.  "we need to get organized, i can't tell what's
been sent and what hasn't."

tatiana, her name is frail, but with the strength of 
an olympic gymnast.  she ruffles through the yellowed cards
of a nicked, old drawer.  "they think i know everything, just
because my mother used to work here.  this morning, anna had 
to rewrite all of my orders.  she knows so much more!  and she is
so competitive.  but watch her around the boys, then she is
made of chocolate, so sweet."

midday, eugenia holds a paper cup, licking ice cream, no -- 
"sorbet, it has less calories because it's only ice" -- as her 
understory green eyes glance at her legs, a brown honey and
as smooth.  "i tried exercising and not eating last week, but 
this week, i gained it all back."     her face has the bone 
structure of god's best architect: like paulina porizkova.

reading a letter with an old typefont and misspellings, katerina 
says, "dear sirs, i am sorry to inform you that andrei
alexyevich was recently killed when a part of our roof 
collapsed after a heavy wind.  his current work, the 
saint of all saints, is incomplete and will not be 
published.  my sincere apologizes for the inconvenience.  
larissa alexyevna.   -- we have sixteen orders for
that book!"

tatiana opens an envelope addressed to the u.s.s.r with
her silver blade.  she notes that it is an order for some 
obscure russian biography -- the letters of nikolai consenko.  she
says, "sometimes this work is mechanical.. repetitive and senseless --
but at least it's better than working at the market."

katerina comes in with a burlap bag, takes out two potatoes.  
"they're twice as much as they were yesterday!  the ruble is
truly worthless; they say we should make a new money."

a straight back, thin white arms, and curly black hair hover
over a neat pile of white-and-pink invoices.  her pen 
writes steadily, until she glances up with her green eyes.  anna's
smile is soft as she says, "i hated kindergarten.  the kids always 
picked on me.  somehow, they can tell the difference -- maybe my
curly hair.  and i'm jewish, everybody hates jews."

     her name is similar to the science of improving a 
species' gene pool, like hitler's scheme of the aryan 
race -- but her fingers do otherwise.  eugenia repetitiously 
folds the pink-and-white papers and tucks them into the 
books which will be shipped to the united states -- a land that 
still retains its unity in name, if not by deed.  
     eugenia says, "it is only for money, after all."



     --jennifer crystal chien