"My cousin Misha Zinkov arrived unexpectedly; having already served in the Army, his presence bore the weight of experience. Born in 1942, I recall vividly our encounters in 1946 when I visited Nizhny Kolchurino, mere memories of a four-year-old Misha scampering about, carefree in just a shirt, much to the chagrin of his mother, my aunt Daria Zinkova, who would threaten him with a twig in Chuvash, urging him to don his trousers. Meanwhile, Nalya, my cousin from Aunt Agafya, would rush to join the playful fray, her Chuvash exclamations echoing a child's innocent competitiveness. Such moments, rooted in the simplicity of rural life, now flicker like distant constellations in the vast expanse of memory.
As Misha matured, tales from Aunt Daria revealed his awareness of Aunt Anastasia and her two daughters, Elena and Galina. His journey through adolescence seemed ordinary, marked by the completion of the seventh grade and intermittent correspondence with us. It was the army that beckoned, embracing him as a driver, a skill acquired perhaps through the bureaucracy of military registration and enlistment.
Thus, fate intertwined our paths at Ekaterina Grigorievna's abode. Together, we embarked on a journey to visit my mother Anastasia Medvedeva on state farm Stepnoye, where she was caring for my children, two daughters Gulia( prescooler) and Toma(second-grader), and 16 years old son Slava. Yet Misha's aspirations sought urban landscapes over the rustic embrace of Stepnoye or his homeland Nizhnye Kolchurino. His desire for city life led him to Krasny Luch, where he sought lodgings while navigating the labyrinth of employment. Ekaterina Grigorievna, with her warm demeanor, welcomed him with open arms, jesting about the added security his presence brought. My and Ekaterina Grigorievna's laughter at one of our former misfortunate, uninvited night guests, though genuine, may have seemed foreign to Misha, since he did not know the story. When he learned of the details, he promised to protect me from man's unwanted advances.
Amid his job search, Misha sought solace in companionship, often inviting us to the cinema on his days off. Despite Ekaterina Grigorievna's demurral, citing her age as a barrier to youthful escapades, I found myself justifying to Misha my absence, citing familial obligations towards my mother and my children who lived in Stepnoye. Misha's solitude in the theater, devoid of companionship, spoke volumes of his reluctance to intrude upon others. For a while, he remained without new friends or a girlfriend.
Yet, a singular evening shattered the routine as one Sunday Misha greeted me with provisions for an impromptu dinner and a film. He bought some halva and the buns and we devoured them with boiled milk. Amidst shared laughter and cinematic escapades, the bond between us deepened, transcending the mundanity of daily existence. Our shared experiences, even though I was 13 years older, whether laughter in the cinema or the quiet intimacy of shared meals, etched memories upon the tapestry of our lives.
And amidst the flickering lights of the cinema, as laughter resonated through the halls, I realized that in the embrace of companionship, even the mundane becomes extraordinary, and the passage of time loses its grip, leaving only the warmth of shared moments in its wake. We watched another movie Keys to Heaven, where a man was searching for the keys and grabbed the woman, turned her upside down, and shaked her but no keys fell out. That hilarious episode made Misha and I laugh very hard all the way home.
Misha occupied the room that was typically mine. Our hostess, accommodating as ever, had arranged an extra bed for me in the hallway closer to the kitchen, where I rested and found solace in the knowledge that my steadfast guardian, cousin Misha, slumbered just beyond the door.
After exhaustive excursions auditing the banks, weariness would settle upon me, prompting an early retreat to bed after supper. Meanwhile, Misha would occupy himself with other pursuits, perhaps delving into the pages of a book. It became customary for me to caution him, "Misha, please, stay put while I change." His playful response was always, "How long will your change of clothes take? Am I forbidden from seeking a breath of fresh air?' He referred to the outhouse as such. "You won't even have time to sneeze before I'm done," I'd retort.
Before retiring for the night, Misha would often request, "Galya, do not lock the door just yet; I may need to step out for some fresh air."
At home, he addressed me as Galya, reserving my official name Galina Alexandrovna for public occasions. I once quipped, "Why the formality? I'm not your superior; despite being older, I am still your sister." To which he explained, "Between us, we understand, but outsiders may misinterpret. To safeguard your reputation, I shall maintain the formality."
Even years later, during his frequent visits to my future apartment in Lutugino, upon spotting me on the street, he'd jest, "Galina Alexandrovna, I've come to pay you a visit!" To which I'd reply, "Oh, Mikhail Georgievich, is that so? I thought you were here to stay!" Laughter and embraces always followed. Like the Chuvash, we weren't accustomed to kissing, except perhaps after prolonged separations. Misha's visits were frequent, and eventually, he brought his firstborn son George, named after his father, to visit us as well.