Page 36 of Clever Little Thing

“Sure,” said Nathan. “But seriously. What are you really passionate about?”

“Dude, I thought British people didn’t ask each other that kind of question,” Kia said. She winked at me. “Isn’t that like asking each other how much money you earn?”

I smiled at Kia. “What areyoupassionate about, Nathan?” Let him feel what it was like to be put on the spot.

“Mushrooms,” Nathan said firmly. “They’re gonna save the world.” The conversation moved on to mushrooms’ recycling powers—there were even some that could eat plastic—and I sat there, crumbling a piece of cornbread.

Pete stood up and tapped his knife on his glass. “Thanksgiving is traditionally a time to give thanks, so I want to say I’m thankful for my beautiful wife, my incredible daughter, and my second child on the way. I’m grateful for new friends and old ones.” He raised his glass. “I’m grateful for all you guys. And I’m grateful I get to be part of Mycoship, this amazing company that’s doing some good in the world.”

I clinked glasses with the others and took a token sip of champagne. Stella took no notice of Pete. She wolfed her food, and then I let her have her dessert right away so she could go to her room.

“It’s fucking great to have a home-cooked meal,” Nathan announced. “I’ve barely had time to boil water for ramen since Home Depot got on board.” The employees murmured their agreement.

When the rest of us had our pumpkin pie, Kia turned to Irina, who hadn’t joined in with the conversation so far. “So, Irina, tell us about yourself. Where are you from?”

“Azerbaijan,” Irina said. There was silence as everyone rackedtheir brains for one scrap of information about this faraway country and came up with nothing.

I’d been wrong: not Kyrgyzstan or Uzbekistan, not that I knew any more about those places. I felt ashamed that I didn’t know. I vowed to look up Azerbaijan later.

“And what brought you over to England?” Kia asked.

“Pogrom,” Irina said.

Kia took a minute to swallow her mouthful and then said the only thing you could say: “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.”

Emmy ventured, “Wasn’t that back in the nineties, Irene? The Russians…” She trailed off, having reached the limits of her knowledge.

“Soviet Union collapse,” Irina said. “We Armenians live in Azerbaijan many years. We think maybe will be OK, then Azerbaijanis start killing us. They kill Blanka’s father.”

The railroad-tie light fixture—I’d never noticed how heavy it was before. I felt it was about to come crashing down on our beeswax candles, our handcrafted dishes. “That’s terrible, Irina,” Pete said. “You don’t have to talk about this. We can stop talking about it.”

Was Pete respecting her silence or trying to get his dinner party back on track?

“What happened to him?” I asked, sure that she was not finished. I’d always assumed he’d died of something quotidian, like a heart attack. Too much meat stew.

“They shut him in oven,” Irina said. “They burn him.”

I clapped my hand over my mouth, feeling like it was all going to come back up, the little I had eaten.

Everyone murmured how sorry they were. There was a longpause, during which people gulped wine. Then Nathan said, “But how do you shut someone in an oven?”

“How?” Irina looked at him, coming back from far away.

“It’s too small, isn’t it?”

“What do you know about ovens?” one of the twentysomethings said.

Kia nodded. “Right? I doubt he’s ever even turned his on.”

I glared at Nathan, though I understood why he’d asked the question. The cryptic way she talked. The little house in the forest. The husband shut in the oven. Like something out of a fairy story.

“It is bread oven,” Irina said firmly. “Plenty of room.”

“And then what happened?” Kia asked.

Irina sat up straight, dignified. “Then I walk over mountains with Blanka, with my daughter. She is three years old. I carry nothing but wedding dress and often Blanka too. For three days, with nothing to eat but dandelion.”

“Well, I’m grateful that you are here tonight,” Kia said to Irina. “Where is your daughter now?”

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