“Are you sure this is what you want to spend your money on, Rebecca?” The girl’s mother asked, looking at the girl with stern eyes. “I won’t give you any more just because you are giving that to charity.”
Rebecca stared at her mother solemnly and nodded. Her mother sighed and pulled the money she had promised her daughter today, a single silver penny. God knows even that little could buy so much in this poor Russian village. “Go ahead, give the money to her.”
Rebecca looked at the woman with eyes much wiser than an eight year-old’s. The woman was in tatters, holding a small guitar and strumming. Her eyes were vacant and unseeing, turned upward to the hazy sky. She was unaware of the exchange, as her ears were finely tuned to listen to money dropping into the tin she had in front of her and not much else. She had to hear the click of coins falling so that she could snatch them and stash them before someone took them from her.
Click.
The woman smiled up at where the person ought to be. “Спасибо,” she whispered, reaching for the coin. She could feel it to be small, and thin- probably a penny.
“Huh?” A high, feminine voice asked.
The woman new that accent- American, for sure. She struggled to find the right words to use. “Thank… you.”
“My name is Rebecca, what is yours?”
She listened closely and could pick out the words name and Rebecca. “Anna Solzhenitsyn,” the woman replied, hoping that it was the right answer.
“Can you play guitar well?”
Anna smiled and began to play a piece by Sergei Prokofiev, the melody adapted for guitar. She played lovingly, listening to the notes come out and feeling pleased when the song came to its close.
“Where did you learn to play?” The voice asked. She felt the dirty towel she sat on shift and realized that the girl had just sat down.
“Rebecca!” Another voice called, “Get up from there this instant!”
“Where did you learn to play?” The girl asked again, apparently ignoring her mother.
Anna hated English with a passion. She understood where, learn, and play; only just enough to piece together the general idea of the question.
“мать,” Anna answered then slowly added “Mother.”
“That sounds so cool! Would you play another song?”
Anna obliged, playing a popular estrada, or Russian pop song. Halfway through she heard a rustle and the sound of a plastic bag opening.
“Would you like some watermelon?” Rebecca asked her, interrupting her song. “It is good food.”
At the sound of food, Anna placed her guitar next to where she sat and held out a hand to the girl, who placed the fruit in her outstretched palm. She took a small bite and smiled at the sweet, sticky food. It was арбуз, and not some strange American food. She had not had this since she was a little girl. Anna picked out the small black seeds from the flesh and spit them out- pt, pt, pt.
“Rebecca,” the other voice said again. “It is time to go. This is a vacation for the both of us and I will not stand here for all of my Russian vacation while you talk to a peasant blind beggar who can’t even understand you.”
Anna heard a sigh and the towel shift again. “Goodbye, Anna,” the girl said sadly. “I hope that we’re friends now.”
Her mother turned away and walked towards the market. Rebecca stood to follow her but then thought again. She placed the bag of her watermelon snack into the tin can while Anna absently strummed on the guitar. Then she ran to catch up with her mother.
Anna reached into the can and pulled out the watermelon. She opened it and smiled, happy to have made a friend, even if just for the moment. She pulled another piece of арбуз form the bag and ate it, spitting out the seeds- pt, pt, pt.
