The Red Scarf

by Kate Furnivall

  “I’m thinking of using it to burn the camp down one sunny day,” she said.

  Nina laughed so hard that a guard came over and stuck his rifle in her face.

  BUT the images and memories crowded in on top of each other while Anna concentrated on pushing each foot forward, leaving her with no strength for defenses against them. She forgot the dim forest trail and the blisters on her feet, and inside the unpredictable labyrinth of her head she was riding in the back of a luxurious black car.

  It was a Daimler and it belonged to the Dyuzheyevs, bigger and shinier than Papa’s Oakland, and with a glass partition between them and the chauffeur that didn’t squeak. Svetlana and Grigori Dyuzheyev were Papa’s dearest friends, wealthy aristocrats who lived in a magnificent villa in Petrograd.

  “Your pearls are beautiful.”

  Svetlana Dyuzheyeva, a stylish and elegant woman, was delighted by the compliment and ran a finger along the triple strand of matched pearls at her creamy throat.

  “Thank you, Anna. They used to belong to my mother and to her mother before that. Here”—she lifted one of Anna’s fingers—“touch them.”

  They felt like silk, warm and alive, but smoother than her own skin. She couldn’t imagine how such beauty could come out of something as ugly as an oyster.

  “They’re wonderful,” she murmured. “And one day Vasily will own them.” She was thinking aloud, already afraid that he’d be stupid and use them to feed his fellow demonstrators. She couldn’t bear the idea of them going to waste.

  Svetlana grinned mischievously, raised one eyebrow, and leaned close to Anna’s ear. “Vasily . . . or his wife,” she whispered.

  To Anna’s horror she felt her cheeks start to burn. She turned away to hide her quiver of excitement and looked out the other window. Maria, Anna’s governess, was seated on the jump seat opposite Papa, in her very best dress of green watered silk and wearing her very best smile. Anna loved her governess, especially today because there had been no frowns, no scolding, and no schoolwork. Instead Maria had played the piano for them all when Grigori tired of doing so and danced with Papa until even her nose glowed pink.

  Afterward there had been singing and champagne and wafer-thin squares of soft white bread piled high with glistening heaps of osyotr caviar that to Anna smelled of mermaids. Now Papa was accompanying Svetlana and Grigori to the theater, and the chauffeur would drive Anna and Maria home. Anna was perched between her father and Svetlana on the broad leather seat of the car. She had enjoyed the excitement of the day but was disappointed now that Vasily had vanished. He’d whispered to her that he had to meet a friend, but when she demanded, “To do what?” his face had closed down and he’d given no answer.

  “Nikolai,” Svetlana said, as though aware of Anna’s thoughts, “it was very naughty of my Vasily not to escort your daughter home tonight. I hope you’re not offended. He’s a bad boy.” But she said it with a mother’s indulgent smile.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Papa said. “With his snow sleighs and dancing, your Vasily knows exactly how to please my daughter and therefore how to please me,”

  He glanced out of the side window as they crawled nose to tail behind a line of evening theater traffic along Bolshaya Morskaya, the lights in the shops twinkling invitingly, reflecting off the black silk of the top hats. After a moment he looked back at Svetlana.

  “Where are they tonight?”

  She gave an elegant shrug. “I don’t know. There’s an eight o’clock curfew.”

  “They’re in Palace Square,” Maria said quietly. “Thousands of them. With placards and banners.”

  “Damn Leninists!” Grigori growled.

  Svetlana sighed. “What are they on strike for this time?”

  “They’re demanding bread, madam.”

  Svetlana touched the pearls at her throat and made no comment, but the words had caused an abrupt change of mood in the car. Anna had the feeling that her feet were suddenly in ice water.

  She hated to see Papa’s face so worried, and to cheer him up she said, “Vasily says that everything will get better for the workers soon.” She stuck out her arm to point to one of the shops they were just passing. “Vasily says that jewelry shops like that one will close because they are criminals.”

  “Criminals?” Papa queried.

  “Yes, he says they are criminals to make fifty-two eggs of gold for the tsarina and the dowager empress while the working man doesn’t even—”

  “Ah, I think Carl Fabergé may not agree with my son there,” Grigori muttered grimly.

  “And Vasily says there are machine guns on rooftops to—”

  “Annochka,” Svetlana said firmly, “you must not listen to everything my son tells you.”

  “Why not?” Anna felt chill.

  “Because . . . he is like you.” She wrapped an arm around Anna. “He still believes the world can be mended.”

  “Papa,” Anna said seriously, “I believe we should do more to help some of these people Vasily says are without food or warm clothes. You and I have more than we need of both, you must admit. So we should share with them.”

  Papa patted her knee in a forgiving sort of way that was extremely annoying. Grigori grunted and Maria smiled. But Svetlana laughed out loud and tightened her arm around Anna’s shoulders, so that the ostrich feathers that trimmed her midnight-blue velvet cloak tickled Anna’s nose, making her sneeze.

  “Bud zdorova!” the adults chorused. “Bless you.”

  Papa kissed her cheek. “Bless you, my dearest child. Bless you today, tomorrow, and all the tomorrows to come.”

  She stared out the window at the chauffeured cars, nose to tail like polished elephants. “Will the tsar be there tonight, Papa? Will it be very grand?”

  Papa took a cigar from his silver case and rolled it between his fingers. “Grand is not a big enough word, my angel. Tonight the Alexandriinsky Theater will drip with grand dukes and gold roubles and imperial magnificence just so that people like us can see a silly melodrama about love and death called Masquerade.”

  “Nikolai,” Svetlana murmured in faint rebuke.

  Silently Papa lit his cigar, watched the first tendril of smoke swirl around the interior of the car, then fixed his gaze on Svetlana and Grigori.

  “My dearest friends,” he said earnestly, “if anything should ever happen to me, will you take care of Anna?”

  Anna’s mouth dropped open. Happen? What was going to happen to Papa?

  “Nikolai, my dear, don’t—”

  “Svetlana, please. Now that my brother is dead of diphtheria there is no one else. And in these uncertain times one never knows, so . . .”

  Svetlana reached behind Anna and squeezed Papa’s shoulder. “It would be an honor. Rest easy, my friend. We love her dearly and would care for her as our own.”

  “Spasibo. Thank you.” His voice was gruff.

  Anna breathed carefully, unable to work out what was going on. She had a horrid fear that she had just been given away and didn’t like the sound of it. But Papa hadn’t finished. He turned to the governess.

  “And you, Maria. If anything should . . . happen, will you also care for my daughter?”

  Anna stared in astonishment at her governess. There were sudden tears in her large brown eyes. She tried to blink them away, but the streetlamp trickled its yellow light down her face.

  “I will, Doktor Fedorin. I love the child.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Ya keyanus. I swear it, Doktor.”

  Papa swallowed hard, then reached up and removed the pin he always wore in his tie. For no more than a second he gazed at it, at the exquisite pair of diamonds set in gold, then brushed his lips lightly over them.

  Anna watched with wide eyes.

  He leaned forward toward the governess on the opposite seat, lifted the lapel of her coat, and slid the point of the tie pin into the soft wool. But on the underside of the lapel. When he sat back once more, the tie pin was no longer visible.

  �
��Nikolai,” Svetlana said, so softly it was barely a word, “that pin was from Anna’s mother. Her wedding gift to you.”

  “What better protection can I offer?”

  Whatever was going on here, Anna was determined to put a stop to it.

  “Papa, ne boysya, don’t be afraid.” She made her voice resolutely cheerful. “Nothing is going to happen to you. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” She gave him a wide grin and patted his strong arm. "You can rely on me. And Vasily.”

  THE streetlamps flicked past the car, painting bright stripes on the darkness. Odeen ... dva ... tri ... Anna started to count them— one ... two . . . three—but her eyes grew heavy and the lights too bright, so she let her eyelids slide shut and leaned her head against the warmth of Maria’s shoulder. The familiar smell of lavender and mothballs that drifted from Maria’s shawl was comforting.

  The Dyuzheyev chauffeur was driving them home now that Papa, Grigori, and Svetlana were gone. The Daimler turned left off Nevsky past the wide steps of St. Isaac’s Cathedral and under the lime trees. Anna drifted further into the billowing darkness that marks the edge of sleep. When the car slowed down she barely noticed, but she felt Maria stiffen and heard the shout of alarm from the chauffeur. She opened her eyes and suddenly there were faces all around them, looming out of the black street. Noses jammed like porridge against the glass, hands drumming a threat on the metalwork, mouths snarling, teeth bared.

  Wolves. They were wolves. Wolves in cloth caps and thick scarves. Wolves howling words she couldn’t understand, but she did know they wanted to tear her limb from limb. The car rocked on its wheels and beside her Maria screamed, and then the big car lurched forward, the engine growling, and the faces were gone. The tall houses whipped past as if in a race. Anna felt her heart on fire in her chest. Maria was breathing hard.

  Anna took her governess’s trembling hand in her own and crooned the way she used to do to her kitten when it was frightened by Grigori’s borzoi hound. “You’re safe now, you’re safe now.”

  But Maria’s eyes were huge in her plump round face, her lips still quivering. She pulled Anna close to her and whispered, “Try to sleep again.”

  Obediently Anna shut her eyes and breathed evenly, sleep breaths. But she was only pretending. Her bones felt stiff, the skin on her cheeks hard. She wouldn’t tell what she’d seen, not to Maria, not to Papa. And certainly not to Svetlana or Grigori. She’d keep the secret safe, but very cautiously, bit by bit, she let the faces of the wolves loose inside her head. She shivered and made herself examine them, one by one, till she found it, the face she was looking for. Yes, he was there, behind the one pressed against the window on Maria’s side of the car, a face she knew, a face she loved. Vasily.

  He was wearing the thick red scarf she’d given him for Christmas, and a gray jacket she’d never seen before, but it looked old and shabby like the ones around him. It was definitely Vasily, but he had grown wolf teeth and wolf eyes.

  Thin tears made tracks down her cheeks.

  FOURTEEN

  SOFIA woke with a jerk. The world was dark. A ferocious banging on the front door of the izba yanked her out of a nightmare she was glad to leave, but before she could even begin to think straight, her body reacted instinctively. It rolled out of the makeshift bed at the back of the stove in one fast fluid movement, ducked low, and raced across the living room, flattening against the wall behind the door.

  Her knife. Where was her knife?

  “Rafik! Open up, damn you,” a man shouted outside. Its owner delivered a hefty kick that rattled the wooden planks on their hinges and made Sofia’s heart jump.

  The door to Rafik’s bedroom opened abruptly, and a candle advanced across the room. Above the flickering flame the gypsy’s face shifted in and out of the shadows as though still a part of Sofia’s dream, but his movements were solid and steady enough. His black eyes took in her position of ambush and he spoke softly.

  “It’s all right, Sofia, calm down. It’s only Mikhail Pashin, not the Blue Caps come to seize you. He is the direktor who runs the Levitsky factory in Dagorsk where Zenia works.”

  Mikhail Pashin. Vasily. He had come to her.

  “Gypsy!” Another rap at the door. “For God’s sake, you’re wanted.”

  Sofia held her breath and reached out to lift the latch, but as she did so, Rafik’s hand seized her wrist. Instantly she felt her panic subside.

  “You’re safe here,” he said evenly.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, so don’t let your mind drown in your fear.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Good.”

  Rafik released her wrist and opened the door to a blast of cold air that made the candle gutter and spit. He curved his hand around the wick, and it managed to struggle back to life.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the bay mare,” the voice outside replied. It was impatient.

  “Foaling so early?”

  “She’s having a wretched time of it. Priest Logvinov is frightened we might lose her.”

  Rafik’s expression showed a spasm of pain, as if the thought of losing a horse wounded him physically. Sofia took the candleholder from his fingers to steady it.

  “Wait here, Pilot,” the gypsy said to the voice at the door and disappeared back into the darkness of his room.

  Mikhail Pashin stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, firmly shutting out the wind and the night. In the sudden silence that followed, Sofia saw in the wavering light a pair of intelligent eyes, gray and private with thoughts, an impression of soft brown hair tumbling over a high forehead. Two lines ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth in deep furrows, though she knew he was no more than thirty. They told of things kept unsaid. But in Russia now, who did not have words hidden behind their lips?

  “I apologize for disturbing your sleep,” he said.

  He treated her to a courteous bow of his head. She was aware that he was studying her with interest, and she became conscious that she was wearing only a nightdress. It was one of fine white cotton that Rafik had given her. She lifted the candle higher to see more clearly what it was about Mikhail Pashin that brought such energy into the house, and she noticed the way his long limbs kept flexing as though eager to be on the move. On his feet were black shoes, highly polished, and he was wearing a charcoal suit with crisp white shirt and black tie, all oddly incongruous in this rough and informal setting. He seemed indifferent to it until he noticed her curious stare, and then he reached up, loosened his tie, and gave a slight shrug.

  “Why does Rafik call you Pilot?” Sofia asked.

  “It’s his private joke. I’m not a pilot of anything.”

  “Except the Levitsky factory?”

  He laughed, but there was an edge to it that made it clear he was anything but amused. “That’s not piloting. That’s crash landing.”

  “Is it wise?”

  “What?”

  “To say such things.”

  She hadn’t meant to startle him. But she saw one eyebrow rise and felt a subtle shift of air between them. He took a step away from her into the deeper shadows that hovered beyond the candle flame’s circle and bowed his head to her again, but this time there was no mistaking the hint of mockery in it.

  “Thank you for the warning,” he said smoothly.

  “It wasn’t a warning, it was . . .”

  At that moment Rafik hurried into the room, fully dressed in a warm wool jacket, with a coarse blanket over one shoulder and a large leather satchel slung from the other.

  “Come, Mikhail,” he ordered. “We must be quick.”

  Mikhail Pashin spun around and opened the door, and without even a farewell to her, the two men hurried away into what remained of the night. Sofia watched them go, one figure short and scurrying, the other tall and lean with the long easy stride of a wolfhound. Neither carried a light, as if their feet knew these paths too well.

  "It wasn’t a warning, it was a question,”
she finished.

  SO he was real. Real flesh. Real blood. Not just a character in Anna’s stories. He was solid, so solid she could have touched him had she chosen to, and her fingers would not have slipped straight through his body the way they did in her dreams. In Anna’s dreams.

  She’d found him.

  He’d come to her, coalescing out of the darkness just as he’d done a thousand times before when she’d summoned him, but never before had he been made of body and bone. Never before did he have a voice. A tongue. Skin that had seen the sun. A long hard throat. Hair that smelled of early morning mists and stable straw. His jaw was more angular than in her imaginings and his gray eyes more guarded, but it was him. Vasily.

  Mikhail Pashin.

  Here in the gypsy’s house she had breathed the same air he breathed. Her heart was pounding and she could still hear his voice. I’m not a pilot of anything.

  “But you’re wrong, Mikhail Pashin,” she whispered, and she brushed her hand through the air where he had stood, as if she could hold on to his shadow. “You brought me here. You guided my footsteps to this village of Tivil as surely as if you had laid a trail for me.”

  And what had she done with the precious moment? Wasted it. Her foolish tongue had frightened him off with a question that sounded to his ears too much like a threat. Damn it, damn it. Where were the soft words she’d planned for him?

  “Next time,” she murmured, angry with herself, “next time I swear I’ll touch you. I’ll place my fingers on the muscles of your arm and feel the hard bone underneath your skin.” Abruptly she slumped down at the table and stared blindly into the shimmering flame. “He’s Anna’s,” she whispered to the night.

  ELIZAVETA Lishnikova felt sorry for the man in the chamber. She was the one who had started calling the dark and dingy underground room a chamber to give it a degree of dignity, rather than a hole, which was how it had been referred to before. It was only three meters square, its earthen walls lined with planking, and a single candle on a shelf threw out strange-angled shadows that Elizaveta had often noticed made the occupant even more jumpy. Only one hard-backed chair stood against the wall, smelling of mildew, and there was a bundle of blankets folded on top of some sacking on the floor. A Bible lay on the shelf next to the candle. Elizaveta had placed it there, but tonight it was obvious it had not been touched.