I remember playing Erudit—Russian-language Scrabble—the first few years in America. Can’t recall whether we brought it with or was sent to us after we arrived but have a clear sense memory of the board and letter tiles. It was black Bakelite with no writing on the board, just different colored squares. Minimalist like a Mondrian or Malevich.
Don’t know if I was any good at it but know I didn’t play long. Switched to the American version soon after and didn’t look back for decades. It was my favorite game for many years. I got good enough that people didn’t want to play with me. Then, after a time, that led to me abandoning it.
There was a brief reprise online but those people were geniuses or bots. I couldn’t keep up.
Every now and then someone would post a picture of Erudit on eBay or Etsy. It would stop me for a moment or two but I never pulled the trigger. Then, a couple months ago, my favorite Soviet crap vendor posted a travel set for sale and I bit.
It looks nothing like my childhood one—I’ve never seen a photo of one that corresponds exactly with my memory, making me think maybe it’s at least partly imagined or augmented—but the weight of the little set, the yellowing plastic cover, the little Cyrillic magnets, all hold an ancestral charge. These rudimentary components of my mother tongue, manufactured in the country of my birth, mean something to me.
There’s anxiety connected to opening the little case. I still speak and read the language but spelling’s a problem. It’s a big helpless insecurity that I make so many mistakes when I try to write. There’s this gut feeling that I should be able to do it without thinking about it, without effort. This is ridiculous, of course. I went to part of first grade in the old country. I have no Russian-speaking friends. The fact any fragment of the language stays with me is a minor miracle.
And yet I can’t help but feel embarrassed.
I’ve only played one game so far. I had the dictionary open and still made a ton of mistakes. It took hours and I was exhausted by the end. I quit before all the tiles were used; a thing I would have never allowed myself playing the English-language version.
The set sits just to the left of this armchair taunting me. I’ll play again. I have to.
I reviewed a great new production of Ionesco’s Rhinoceros and talked with Mallory about The Night of the Hunter.