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  • The Ashtray
  • Marjorie Sandor (bio)

“. . . when asked how he wrote his stories, Chekhov laughed, snatched up the nearest object—an ashtray—and said that if Korolenko wanted a story called The Ashtray, he could have it the next morning.”

(from The Undiscovered Chekhov)

He was forever misplacing it, leaving it wherever he happened to land, then crying out in a panic, “Where is it, Nastya, what have you done with it?”

He left it on the bookshelf, on the table where he took his bouillon, and on the veranda railing where, sometimes, he took his cordial drops, the medicine in its heavy spoon. He left it on the mantel, just beside the hole where the tile had fallen out, a hole he’d covered himself with a small rough painting that fit just so: hayricks in an evening field. He left it there so often it became a private joke between them: no gun on the mantel, just an ashtray, that’s what’s going to happen in the third act.

Mysteriously, it was always full to the brim, despite the printed placard on his study wall, “You are requested not to smoke.” For he never refused his guests the slightest whim: he said nothing, even to the architect who blew in one day, shining and plump as a shrimp, and lit a huge, stinking Riga cigar—and what did he even want? They never knew. That fellow filled the ashtray all by himself.

It took forever to get the smell out. She opened all the windows, scented the air with his favorite cologne, and yet when evening fell she discovered the ashtray still full, on a shelf so high she couldn’t naturally reach it; she had to scramble onto a chair to get it down while he watched, his mouth well-hidden between mustache and beard. Had he [End Page 112] moved it there himself, solely for the pleasure of watching her? For it was true: a slim ankle consoled him.

And watch her he did, from his armchair, a rug on his knees, as she nestled it in her palm and held it aloft, making her way through the small study to the back door and the kitchen garden, where she emptied it as she always did, just beside the steps. She’d learned something, carrying it that time, so astonishingly full: to hold it in her palm just so as if there was nothing else crying out for her attention: the onion half-chopped, the broth unstrained, the handkerchiefs with their terrible dark-red centers, crumpled and hidden beneath his bed.

The kitchen garden was to the west of the house, and now that it was spring, the light came through the almond trees so brightly that she couldn’t really see as she carried it through the house. But by now she didn’t really need to see: she knew how to weave her way between the table and the stove, the stacks of books, the extra chairs for guests. She watched only to see that no ash spilled in the gold light. Only when she was safely in the garden did she let herself take in the world: there was the orchard, the low stone wall, and on the other side, the abandoned graveyard he loved so much. Old Tartars were buried there, and no one ever came. Then she dropped her gaze, and dumped the ashes: always in the same place. She was making a tiny mountain there, the way she used to do as a child. A little mountain of white, protected from the wind.

Small and heavy, so snug in the palm, he liked to say, be glad, young lady, it’s not a grand crystal one, for it wouldn’t fit in your palm the way it does.

She understood: men who love a slim ankle also love a small square palm.

So she carried it, night after night, empty or full, whether he was alone, or surrounded by family and friends, or beset by the terrible young, who wanted too much. Tonight, for instance. Here stood a young writer, ready to devour him as the light poured in from...

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