To Russia with Love

“Almost finished we just need a contact to accept the shipment when it arrives at the port.” The bulky delivery man asked.

“That’ll be me.” I reached for his clipboard to write down my information.

The driver looked around the almost empty room “Are you moving to Russia? I’ve always wanted to go, but I never had enough saved up to travel. “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you do for a living?”

“Right now, I don’t have a regular nine to five. I recently sold some sculptures and they did better than I expected.” I handed back his clipboard.

“How much did this one sell for?” The delivery man pointed with his hands full.

“It didn’t. This one is one of a kind.” swallowing hard, I looked down “It was the last piece a friend of mine made. Now it will be with him forever in Russia.” The delivery man looked questionably waiting for a explanation without wanting to ask. “My friend recently passed away, you might have read about it in the papers? The immigrant artist who became famous in a weekend?” The delivery man scratched his chin “Yeah I do remember reading something like that.”

“No one knew about him until he died unfortunately. I tried to sell his art before, but he kept telling me ‘it wasn’t time’. Stubborn til the end.” I laughed thinking back.

“Were you kin?” He asked.

I shook my head “No, he didn’t have any family except for his parents that passed away in Russia. They have a family plot over there, it didn’t seem right to bury him here.” That’s why I am shipping this.” I patted the large statue. “I think he would have liked for this to be his grave stone. I just wished I would have convinced him to sell earlier, then he would be traveling in a much different fashion.” I shook my head.

“Did you know him long?” The Delivery man asked sympathetically.

“I met Mr. Malinov on a bus about two years ago…” I paused trying to remember correctly then I laughed at the memory “He was taking the tiniest steps down the aisle, you know how old people take their time, the driver was impatient and jerked forward as soon as he turned to sit. He dropped his bag of groceries, when he was picking them up a little black notebook fell out of his shirt pocket and it slid back to me. At first I didn’t notice. I even kicked it with my foot, when I picked it up, the page lifted slightly and a drawing of a hand peeped through. A very detailed hand. I flipped through it, the sketches were incredible. Rough but lifelike you know.” I ran my fingers through my hair remembering if I just handed back the notebook and didn’t say anything, how different my last two years would have been. Sitting on the couch watching TV after work. Lather, rinse, repeat. “I tried to hand it back to him, It took a couple of loud ‘Excuse me Sirs’ before he noticed me. I remember not wanting to scare him with a tap on his shoulder. He was almost deaf.” I smiled remembering a time I was visiting and almost gave him a heart attack. “I told him that I saw one of the drawings and asked if he drew it. He opened the book to show me a sketch of a mother and child he did earlier that day while he was waiting at the bus stop. The child was holding the mother’s hand and pointing forward but the mother was unfinished, or so I thought. It almost looked as if she was turning into a rock. He told me that he was a sculptor for many years, his father before him as well. He showed me his slightly shaky hands, wrinkled and vallied by veins as proof. He asked me if I was going to school, I told him ‘not anymore’ and laughed, he must have thought I was much younger. He was almost 83 when I met him so I was very young in his eyes. I perked up and proudly told him that I was a practicing underwriter for Weinstein & Co.” I chuckled, shook my head and continued. “He just nodded and smiled, even though he didn’t understand, it wasn’t until later I realized I was chasing someone else's' dream. Mr. helped me understand what is truly valuable in life.” I laughed slightly. “He took me to this house that first day we met, I will never forget, this kitchen was his living room, bedroom all in one.” I pointed behind me. “His art took over the rest of the house and most of the yard. He kept me around to help him move things that were too heavy for him or to place a clay clump on the pottery wheel or work the kiln. He was the strongest man I knew. Not physically, obviously, his experiences shaped him, kind of like he was a chiseled sculpture too. I loved watching him work, he told me he has been working since he could hold a tool and I believe it, he told me of a time he helped his father with a statue of Stalin when he was eight years old. His parents sent him off shortly after that when Germany was threatening to invade. Could you imagine traveling across countries and an ocean without your family?” I shook my head still amazed at the thought “Another family ended up taking him under their wing here in America, they set him up as a stonemason apprentice. He helped build many buildings here in Jersey when he was younger. He would tell me stories about growing up in the Soviet Union, and his incredible journey here, his work always reflected how he felt. If his memory was sad his clay sculpture would almost look like it was melting, or he would paint in almost all grey tones. If his memory was happy his sculptures had such movement, and his paintings were very abstract. It was like you could feel what he was feeling just by looking at it. That’s why they sold as fast as they did. Close to twenty thousand dollars worth of art he left me. I’m using the money I received to make this trip with him, I looked over to the very large morphic statue that he worked on for so long, I wonder if he knew what it was destined for.