LIUBOV - Midnight in Siberia: A Train Journey into the Heart of Russia - page 40

“No,” he says, almost sternly. “Even numbers of flowers are only for funerals, for
mourning a death.”
After several years in Russia, this is the first I've heard of this particular tradition. (And
it is no small realization, having brought Rose even numbers of roses on many occasions.
Oops?)
“Sergei, they lost their son a little more than a year ago. Are they still in mourning?”
The two of us are perplexed. When does a parent close the door on such a tragedy?
Never, of course. But when it is time to move on? More to the point, when does a person
not want to be reminded of a tragedy anymore? I lost my own mother in 2006. Her sudden
and unexpected death, from a blood clot, was easily the hardest day of my life. Not a day
goes by when I don't think about her. But within months I began the hard process of mov-
ing forward, unshackling myself from that awful day in the past. I want to believe Nikita's
parents are well on their way down that road.
“Odd. Let's go odd. Five roses.” Sergei thinks about this for a moment, then nods his
head approvingly. “I think this is the right decision.”
Our decision reached, the woman at the flower kiosk delicately pulls five roses—three
red and two yellow—from her gorgeous stash, dresses them with white baby's breath, trims
the stems with scissors, wraps it all in plastic, and ties the bouquet neatly with yellow rib-
bon. I hand her seven hundred rubles (twenty-three dollars), and we are on our way up the
street.
Nikita's parents live upstairs in a tan-brick apartment complex that's as drab and unin-
teresting as so many buildings in Russia. But I learned a rule very quickly in this country:
Don't judge a building by its structure. Many a time I have trudged through a trash-strewn
courtyard, opened a rusting metal door, climbed a dark, cracked-concrete staircase only to
find a person's apartment beautifully decorated and welcoming. Many landlords could care
less about the outside. Tenants care deeply about what's inside.
Nikita's mom, Liubov, opens the door of her kvartira , or “apartment,” and waves her
right arm in a sweeping motion for us to come in. I hand her the flowers. She nods and
quietly says “ Spasibo ,” thank you. She looks down at them for a moment, perhaps count-
ing, and smiles, the only hint that we made the right call. Following another tradition, I re-
move my snow-covered boots, since we are in someone's home. Liubov points to a pile of
slippers, which families always have on hand for guests, but Sergei and I both just stay in
our socks—one of two acceptable options. Nikita's mom is a short, tough-looking woman
with cropped dark hair, a square-ish face, and a gap between her two front teeth. At first
the tension is difficult to endure. She isn't sure whether to detour into small talk or go right
into talking about her son. Sergei and I aren't sure where to go either.
She quietly walks us into a room that I immediately identify as Nikita's old bedroom.
“This is my museum,” she says.