Mr. Kovalenko (F)

Mr. Kovalenko unwinds the garden hose and steps between the first of his bonsai display tables. On his left are the Trident maples, fat trunks, gnarled, short branches wired horizontally.

The morning clouds low, no neighbors stirring yet, he sweeps his rain wand back and forth over the trees.

He coughs.

On the right, the table of Japanese black pines, many among his oldest trees. The very oldest now 45 years old, the one he bought from Peter Chan in England.

He will not sell it, the only tree he will never sell. He can easily remember the day the tree arrived, how excited he was. His hands shook as he cut through the packing tape and slowly picked through the packing peanuts.

His wife Anichka teased him. “It is not the second coming, Kos-y.”

“Damn close, my wife.” They both laughed.

Again he coughs. The smell of smoke. Worse today than yesterday.

His youngest daughter Daryna promised today she would make borscht with garlic fritters. “You have garlic?” he asked her. “No, but the neighbors will share with us.”

She should have left the city, should have gone with her university friends.

He tugs on the hose. The next two tables, the birch trees. Some arranged in tiny forests of 5 or 7 trees. One customer called him yesterday to cancel an order for a 5-tree grouping. He soaks each bonsai slowly.

If he dies—when he dies—what becomes of the collection. Sold most likely, the children don’t want to trouble themselves with such time-consuming effort. The grandchildren are too young.

Daryna is bright, she will make a good engineer. After the war. Maybe elsewhere. If she will leave.

“Papa, we must go. Now!” She put a hand on his arm as he sat at the dining table.

“No. You go. You should go now.”

“Papa.”

“Now, while trains still are running.”

“You are stubborn.”

“Yes. As you.”

Back to the maples for another round of water. The wind is picking up. The air seems chillier. Slowly, the wand, back and forth, five counts for each pot.

A distant boom. He looks up. Not thunder. People say it sounds like thunder. No, not like thunder. Maybe they don’t want to think what it is. Afraid.

We are all afraid.

He shuts off the wand for a moment and takes out a Prima. He can’t find his matches, but he keeps the cigarette between his lips.

Two quick booms. From the north this time.

Quickly, he retraces his watering route over the black pines. One-two-three-four-five. One-two-three-four-five. He moves the cigarette back and forth between his lips. One-two-three-four-five.

The golden tree. One-two-three-four-five. Oh, Anichka.

Again he shuts off the wand and puts the cigarette back in the pack.

Instead of a second round for the birches, he loops around with the hose to begin with the Satsuki cuttings. The small plastic pots are on the ground, packed tightly in groups of 25. He lets the water cascade over the tiny plants.

Three years, then into training pots. And in 5 years, maybe six, into pots, ready for sale.

Three booms in the east.

Back and forth, one-two-three-four-five. One-two-three-four-five.

Lyman 2022

 #shortfiction