Romantic Road

by Blair McDowell

  It was this place. Everywhere she looked she saw Igor. Idly she picked up a triptych that sat on a side table, a lovely miniature three-panel painting depicting the birth of the Christ Child. She ran her finger lightly over the gilt frame, feeling the texture. Something from Igor’s Russian past. A past about which she knew so little. Where had this little piece of medieval art come from? It clearly had personal meaning for him, but why?

  How could she know so little about the man she’d loved? The man she’d married? She wandered over to the large window and gazed down at Central Park. Igor told her he’d chosen the apartment for this view.

  It had been his when she first met him. How impressed she’d been at the address and at the view. Impressed with the apartment and with the man.

  At the time, she’d been living with her closest friend, Jane Kline, in a tiny walk-up in Brooklyn. She smiled in remembrance.

  Igor had been so different from the other men, boys really, she’d dated. He was so sure of himself. So at home in his mind and comfortable in his body. He was fifty to her twenty-two. And she’d never met anyone like him in her life.

  Coming back to the present, she glanced at her watch. She had an appointment to keep. She looked down at her plaid shirt and faded jeans. They certainly wouldn’t do for a meeting with Richard.

  An hour later when she left the apartment she was wearing a simple black sheath and the pearls Igor had given her for their first anniversary.

  ****

  “So in summary, you own the apartment on Park Avenue and the cabin in the Berkshires, and Igor left you an income sufficient to live as you always have since your marriage.”

  Igor’s attorney looked down at the sheaf of papers in front of him. “You’re not exactly wealthy, Lacy, but you need never work again if you don’t wish to.”

  “I think I’ll be going back to my job at the U.N., if they’ll have me, Richard. I can’t imagine what I’d do with my life if I didn’t work. It seems so empty.”

  “Take some time to think about it.” Richard looked at her appraisingly. “How was your stay at the cabin? I know you’ve always said you love it there. Although I can’t imagine why. All those mountains and trees and wildlife. Not my kind of thing. I prefer my wildlife of the urban kind.”

  Then he became serious once more. “I need to inform you of one other provision in the will. Igor left a sizable bequest to an Irenke Telchev in Budapest, Hungary. Do you know who she is?”

  “I have no idea. But if her name is Telchev, she must be a relative. Igor never mentioned anyone named Irenke. He never mentioned any living relatives. I wonder…Did he not explain anything to you?”

  “Igor explain?” Richard gave a short laugh. “Never. It wasn’t his style to explain anything.”

  “I’d like to write to her, whoever she is. Clearly she mattered to Igor if he left her a bequest. Can’t you get me her address?”

  “I can try. But all I have at the moment is her name and a bank account number.”

  “Please get me whatever information you can.”

  Lacy looked down at her hands tightly clenched in her lap and plunged into speech. “Richard, something funny happened on the way back from the cabin.”

  “Funny?”

  “Odd. Two men stopped me on the road. They passed me and blocked my car and…”

  Richard exploded. “Blocked your car!”

  “I’d just closed up the cabin and started driving. I intended to come straight through to New York, but after I got stopped on the road…” Lacy thought back to that night. “They weren’t wearing uniforms, but they seemed to be police of some kind. They showed me a badge, but I didn’t see it clearly.”

  “The Feds?” Richard’s voice registered shock.

  “They said something about wanting a manuscript of Igor’s. Their attitude was quite threatening. But then the highway police came.”

  “The highway police?” Richard shook his head, eyebrows raised, incredulous. “Didn’t they question the men who’d stopped you?”

  “No. That’s what’s so odd. The two men just showed them their badges and left.”

  Richard was silent for a moment. Then, “Did the police look at your registration and license?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what time would that have been?”

  “Around seven o’clock, I think.”

  “I’ll try to follow up with the Massachusetts State Police. They should have a record of the incident. Perhaps they can tell me something more.”

  Lacy frowned, remembering. “They just sent me on my way. But by that time I was too upset to drive any farther, so I stopped for the night in Great Barrington.”

  “I should think so. Why didn’t you call me, Lacy? I’m your attorney and your friend. You should have called me last night when this happened.”

  “I didn’t think…I was upset.”

  “I’m sure you were. But if anything like this should occur again, call me immediately.” Richard hesitated. “About Igor’s new manuscript…”

  “I don’t know where it is or what it is. I haven’t yet tried to get into his computer.”

  Richard was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed. “You should try. I suppose we’ll come across it at some point. He must at least have kept a back-up someplace.”

  “Perhaps,” Lacy agreed as she stood to leave.

  Richard rose to see her out. “Don’t forget, we’re having dinner next Tuesday. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Of course.” Lacy had indeed forgotten. As she left Richard’s office her thoughts returned to Irenke Telchev. Who was she? Why had Igor never mentioned her?

  ****

  The next morning, Lacy dragged herself out of bed. Eight a.m. Again she’d had less than four hours sleep. She couldn’t go on this way. She wasn’t sleeping; she didn’t feel like eating.

  The cat brushed between her legs, bringing her mind back to the present. “I get the message, Sica. Your breakfast is coming up.”

  As she opened the can and dished out the cat food, she thought about what Richard had said. She should try to find Igor’s new manuscript.

  What had he been working on? Lacy went through to his office and opened his computer.

  Several frustrating hours later she’d been able to get in sufficiently to open his email and bank accounts. Nothing new there. She’d always had access to those on her own laptop. But there was one file, enigmatically entitled simply “M,” she’d been unable to open. She’d tried every password she could think of. Nothing worked. Maybe she should ask Richard to try. He’d known Igor longer than she had. He might have some insight into Igor’s mind, into likely passwords, that she didn’t. Somehow she was sure the file contained the manuscript that had so obsessed Igor during the two years preceding his death. If she only knew what he’d been working on, she might be able to come to terms with the loss of her husband. And with the threatening men who seemed to want whatever it was he was writing.

  She sat at the keyboard trying combination after combination of letters and numbers that might have had some meaning to Igor. Nothing worked. Finally, Lacy pushed the desk chair back and put her head in her hands. There was so much she didn’t know about her husband. How could she ever hope to get into this file he’d wanted to keep secret?

  She stood and stretched and took a sip of the tea she’d prepared earlier. It was cold and bitter. She looked at her watch. Five in the afternoon? Had she really been at this all day? And with so little to show for it?

  Taking her tea to the kitchen, she threw it down the sink and put fresh water in the kettle. She should call and thank Jane for feeding Sica and looking after her plants while she was in the Berkshires.

  As if in answer to her thoughts, the phone rang.

  It was Jane. “Richard told me you were back, and I’ll bet you don’t have anything in the house to eat. I’ve got some carry-out Thai food.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In your lobby.”

  In spi
te of herself, Lacy laughed. “By all means, come on up.”

  Jane was there moments later, her arms full of boxes. “I hope you’re hungry. I couldn’t decide what to get so I got it all. Chicken in coconut curry sauce, noodle soup, satay, lots of condiments,” Jane said, unloading boxes.

  “You knew I could never resist satay.” Lacy busied herself pulling dishes down from the cupboard and getting silverware out of the drawer. She set the small table in the living room while Jane spooned the food onto the plates.

  When they were seated, Lacy sat staring at her plate, toying with her food.

  “During the funeral I kept thinking about your wedding,” Jane said. “It was so sudden. One minute you’re telling me about this handsome Russian you met at a lecture and the next, I’m attending your wedding at the courthouse.” She took a sip of her tea. “Richard was supposed to be best man, and he was late. He rushed in just after me. That was the first time I’d met him, and I was stunned speechless. He’s so incredibly good-looking.”

  Lacy smiled. “Richard is very attractive, isn’t he? I’ve often wondered how he manages to remain single.”

  “I thought for a while we might... ” Jane sighed. “I mean, in those first couple of years when we were so often together as a foursome I thought something might come of it. But of course it never did. Just as well. Richard’s a bit of a cold fish.”

  “Do you think so? I think it’s just that he’s a bit shy and so correct and proper; sometimes it’s hard to see the man under the façade. He was Igor’s friend and attorney for years before we met. He negotiated all of Igor’s contracts. Igor said he couldn’t have managed the business side of his writing without Richard. And he’s been very helpful to me since Igor…” Lacy stumbled over his name and looked down at her untouched food.

  Jane put her fork down and took Lacy’s hand. “Talk to me, Lacy. I know you’re hurting. I know how much you loved him, but there’s something more to it. I know there is. Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

  The tears came. The tears she hadn’t shed at his funeral. The tears she’d been unable to stop shedding during the last two cold years of her marriage to Igor.

  “We were so happy at first. You know I was wildly in love with him. We talked and laughed”—Lacy smiled through her tears—“and spent inordinate amounts of time in bed.”

  “I know,” Jane said. “Anyone could see how happy you were.”

  “Of course, Igor often traveled for weeks at a time, meetings with his publisher in London, research for his next book. We agreed I should keep my job at the U.N. even though we didn’t need the money.”

  “I remember,” Jane said, gently prodding. “But…?”

  “It’s just that I know so little about him, about the years before we met. Of course I was curious about his past. What woman wouldn’t be? And he occasionally disclosed odd bits about his early years, but I always sensed I was getting a very much abridged version. He told me he was born in Russia and still had numerous connections there and in the rest of Europe. And that he’d made his home in the United States for some thirty years.”

  Lacy looked up at Jane. “He wasn’t exactly evasive, but I never really learned anything about his past. When I asked him about it, Igor had a way of diverting attention very quickly with a caress or a kiss. Our more personal conversations always seemed to end up in bed. I think, looking back, it was Igor’s way of avoiding unwanted discussions.”

  Jane laughed. “Not an unpleasant way.”

  “No,” Lacy agreed. “But I keep asking myself if there were problems in his life even then? Did I, in my newfound happiness, simply ignore the warning signs?” Lacy stumbled over the last words as tears streaked her cheeks.

  Jane came around to Lacy’s chair and led her to the sofa. She put her arms around her friend and waited until the sobbing stopped. Then she went to the sideboard and poured a cognac and brought it to Lacy.

  Lacy gave her a watery smile. “Thanks. I feel better now. I haven’t ever talked to anyone about this.”

  “Perhaps it’s time you did,” Jane murmured. “It isn’t good to keep things bottled up.”

  They were silent for a moment as Lacy sipped her drink. When she started talking, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

  “My marriage to Igor didn’t end when I buried him. It ended after his first heart attack two years ago.” Lacy took a shuddering breath. “You remember I quit my U.N. job? I wanted to be there for him during his convalescence. But when he came home from the hospital, he moved into the guest bedroom. The doctor told me it was safe for us to resume sex, but sex was the farthest thing from Igor’s mind. He was so withdrawn. He never laughed anymore. He hardly spoke to me. If I put my arms around him, tried to kiss him, show any sign of affection, he brushed me off. Finally I stopped trying. For the last year, we lived in this apartment together, strangers, hardly speaking to one another.”

  Jane shook her head. “I’ve known for a long time there was something wrong.”

  “He was deeply depressed. I tried to talk to his doctors about it, but they didn’t want to hear from anyone except the patient himself, and Igor was very good at dissembling when he was with his doctors.”

  Anguish swept through Lacy. When she spoke there was a catch in her voice. “Then it got worse. He’d closet himself in his study for hours at a time, writing. I don’t know what he was working on. When I asked him, he just shook his head. He was very secretive.”

  “Was that unusual when he was writing?”

  “Very. Before that he always told me what he was working on.” Lacy sighed. “When he started traveling again I had a brief hope. He made three trips to Europe about two months apart. I thought maybe his getting away, returning to places he loved, might signal a more normal life for both of us when he returned.”

  “Was it?” Jane asked.

  “No. When he came home he once again closeted himself in his study. He was writing, I think working on a new book, day and night.”

  Jane looked puzzled. “But he was a writer when you married him. It’s what he did. How was this different?”

  “It was very different. He wouldn’t talk about it. He seemed fearful. Toward the end he hardly ever left the apartment. I prepared food for him and took it into his study. Sometimes he ate it. Often he didn’t. I was out of my mind with worry.”

  Jane frowned. “It was obvious something wasn’t right between you. But I never suspected it was so serious.”

  “He made one last trip to Europe shortly before his death. After that he never left this apartment again. He became almost paranoid. He never ate any food unless he prepared it himself. He saw no one except Richard who came often. Igor seemed…I don’t know…almost fatalistic. As if he knew he was going to die. And I was no help. I just stood by helplessly while the man I loved disappeared bit by bit.”

  “I’m not sure there was anything you could have done, Lacy. From what you say, Igor seems to have been unwilling to accept help.”

  “But I should have seen the signs. I should have realized he was suicidal.”

  “Suicidal! There was never any mention of suicide.” Jane’s voice shook with shock.

  “No. There wouldn’t be. He was too bright for that. A second heart attack, perhaps brought on by an accidental overdose…That’s what they said.”

  Lacy started weeping again, silently. “I feel responsible. I loved him, and I stood by and let him die. I keep feeling I could have done something more.”

  Jane took Lacy in her arms and comforted her. Lacy crumpled against her, relieved to have at last shared the burden she had carried for the last two years.

  Chapter Two

  It had been a month since Lacy returned from the cabin. She hadn’t been able to access anything more on Igor’s computer. Finally she’d just given up.

  Sighing, she walked into the guest room where Igor had slept for the last two years of his life. It was time to do something about his things. Opening the door to his closet, she saw his clothes
hanging neatly, his favorite tweed jacket in the center. Unable to stop herself, she brushed the sleeve gently with her hand and brought it up to caress her face. His scent still lingered in the soft wool. Tears sprung to her eyes. Unbidden, her mind flashed back to the first time she’d ever seen him.

  It had been at a lecture at NYU. He arrived at the last moment, and she had to stand so he could get past her aisle seat to the vacant one beside her. A large, powerful-looking man with a shock of white hair that seemed somehow right with his sharply etched face, high cheekbones, and piercing green eyes. He sizzled with energy.

  Lacy realized she was staring at him and brought her attention back to the podium, where the evening’s lecturer was being introduced.

  The speaker, an economist of some renown, began discussing the present political and financial turmoil in the Euro Zone nations. He was quick with his ready wit and easy solutions. He was opinionated and, Lacy felt, dangerously wrong in underestimating the seriousness of the problems facing Europe. She was debating getting up and walking out on the lecture when the man next to her muttered in Russian, “Fool!”

  She answered him in the same language, “Not just a fool, but an arrogant fool.”

  They looked at each other and left the lecture together. Outside the building, he took her arm and commanded, “Walk with me.”

  “Lacy Jones,” she said.

  “Delighted to meet you, Lacy Jones.” He spoke in Russian. “Igor Telchev.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “Not the Igor Telchev? The writer? Author of a half dozen books, two biographies of Trotsky, The Dream and the Dreamer, and A Dream Destroyed?”

  “One and the same. You’ve read them?”

  “Of course I have. Everybody’s read them. You were on the New York Times best seller list for months.”

  He shrugged eloquently and changed the subject. “How is it you speak Russian so well?”

  “It’s my job. I’ve always had a certain skill at languages. I’m a simultaneous translator at the United Nations.”

  “Ah. And what other languages do you speak?”

  “Besides Russian? German, French, and Hungarian. And of course, English. I grew up in Ames, Iowa.”