Nicolai's Garden

Nicolai’s Garden

By Erin Schmiel

The lone beet lurking in the refrigerator was a perfect candidate for borscht. Alexey pulls the dull-looking tuber from the drawer where it had been knocking against the bright orange carrots. He brushes at the skin, not able to wipe away its dirty color.

He recalls the damp morning he yanked this beet from the ground. It had come easily from the soil, as if wanting him to pick it. Nicolai, the previous owner, had taken good care of the soil. He put everything into it. Alexey knew he would make borscht with his harvest even then.

He grabs the carrots and onions from the same compartment and begins chopping, tossing the pieces into the pot as he goes. All goes well until he pierces the beet.

“Ouch!” he yelps. There is blood everywhere, magenta staining the cutting board and dripping from the knife. But it is not he who is bleeding, he checks his fingers and all is whole. It’s the beet, oozing its bloody center over the counter. He quickly tosses it too into the pot, and turns the burner up. He lets the soup boil, adding cabbage near the end.

After an hour on the stove, the borscht is ready to be eaten, and Alexey takes it off the burner. His arms tremble as he lifts the heavy stewpot. Its aroma is earthy and sweet. He ladles some into his bowl, scooping sour cream onto the top of it, he watches it start melting, easing itself into the steaming borscht, changing from rich purple to, deep crimson.

He breathes in the aroma, becoming light-headed. Unable to resist any longer, he grabs his spoon and digs in. He burns his tongue but doesn’t stop, as spoonful after spoonful find their way into his mouth. He slurps at the empty bowl and ladles more to fill it. The tang of the beet meets with the cream, the sugars combining on his tongue him woozy. He looks down at his hands and notices that they’re still stained from cutting the beets. He had washed them, but with little effect. He eats the second bowl as quickly as the first, not noticing his skin becoming flushed. He empties the second bowl and goes for a third as if in a fever, satisfied in his hunger, but unable to stop.

With each bite he becomes more and more flushed. He opens the windows in his small kitchen, thinking it had become warm from the cooking. Before Alexis knows it, his skin takes on a dirty, rough quality like that of the beet he had tried to wash. He was not flushed, but was turning red. Beet red. Brushing at his arms, he jumps from the table, knocking over the bowl, the spoon clanging on the wooden floor. He stumbles, his legs less like legs now, and more like roots.

“What is happening?” he cries as he grabs the chair for support. But no one answers. He grabs his head and feels small leaves sprouting from his hair. Gasping, he runs out the door of his cottage, into the warm evening, listing side to side on his root legs.

Growing rounder by the minute, stumbling through the yard, he knows what he must do. He tumbles into his garden, digging at the dark earth, feeling the cool soil on his purple, root hands. He lays down, nestling himself into the dirt, wiggling himself deeper into the ground until at eye level with the surface. Here, he falls into a deep sleep, calm and happy to be home at last.

Alexey becomes the beets that fill his garden, waiting for the spring and the next unsuspecting cook to come and pull his descendents from the ground and thinking of borscht and brushing at the rough skin.