The Disappearance of Anna Popov

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘The club was very popular with the students and I went there often with friends. Zolli and Nikki became part of our little group. We met at the club almost every night. Zolli was very popular: charming, gregarious, good looking ... Nikki, on the other hand, was the silent type – deep, brooding, poetic ... typically Russian.’

  Jack opened the champagne, letting the cork pop. The familiar sound brought a smile to the countess’s pale face.

  ‘We drank a lot of this,’ she said, pointing to the champagne bottle, ‘buckets of it. I fell in love with Zolli. We used to sneak back to the room he shared with Nikki and make love. We missed many of our lectures. Nikki never missed his. And then I fell pregnant ... I was 19.’

  The countess took a sip of champagne and kept staring at the bubbles rising in the tall crystal glass.

  ‘It was a disaster. At first, I didn’t have the courage to tell Zolli and I turned to Nikki for help. Little did I know ... I had no idea how he felt about me. For an unmarried young woman to fall pregnant at that time, especially in our circles – my parents were deeply religious – was a catastrophe. Nikki understood this and spoke to Zolli. Zolli was ecstatic and proposed at once. We would get married and live happily ever after ... That was when he ...’

  The countess began to choke and couldn’t complete the sentence. She reached for her purse, took out a handkerchief and wiped away the tears that were rolling down her cheeks. Jack and Rebecca looked away.

  ‘When he gave me this,’ continued the countess, regaining her composure. She reached for the bracelet and held it up with both hands. ‘I found out later that he had to borrow the money from Nikki.’ A small smile flashed across the countess’s wan face. ‘He never had any money, you see, and two days later, he was dead.’ For a while the countess sat in silence, staring at something only she could see.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Rebecca, trying to break the spell.

  ‘There was a fire at the nightclub. It started in the cloakroom and spread quickly. Six people died. Zoltan was one of them and I almost followed him. I wanted to take my own life, you see. It seemed the only way out, until Nikki saved me.’

  ‘How?’ asked Rebecca, reaching for the countess’s hand.

  ‘He offered to marry me, and I accepted.’

  ‘That’s quite a story,’ said Jack.

  ‘Yes, but is doesn’t have a happy ending. You met Nikolai, you say, Mr Rogan. What did you think of him?’ asked the countess.

  ‘He struck me as a very private man. Reserved. Rather shy I thought, and sad,’ replied Jack. He reached for the bottle in the ice bucket, dried it with a serviette and refilled the glasses.

  ‘Very perceptive of you. I tried to love him. I really tried, but somehow Zoltan was always there. He may have died, but he never left us, especially after Anna was born. You cannot force love, don’t you think?’ asked the countess, turning towards Rebecca.

  ‘Gratitude isn’t love. You cannot ignite what isn’t there. Nikolai sensed this of course and buried himself more and more in his work. He was offered a teaching position in Cambridge and we moved to England. Anna became the apple of his eye. He loved her more than life itself. It was almost as if he had somehow transferred his love for me onto the child. You see, Anna returned his love. Naturally and unconditionally.

  ‘She adored him. She became our bond, the link between our quite separate lives. Nikolai was brilliant right from the start and rose quickly in academic circles. He travelled a lot and we sent Anna to Switzerland to finish school.’

  The countess lit another cigarette and reached for the photograph showing the inscription scratched into the secretaire. ‘Did Anna really write this, Mr Rogan?’ she asked, holding up the photo.

  ‘I don’t know, Countess,’ replied Jack. He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘But every time I look at it, I’m moved ... I’m not explaining this very well, am I?’ He paused again, sensing that he had almost gone too far. ‘In any event, I intend to find out. I promise you.’

  The countess looked at him wistfully. ‘We both agreed that we would tell Anna about her father when she turned twenty-one. It seemed the right thing to do. Zoltan deserved that, and so did Anna. Nikolai dreaded this, more than I realised at the time. He left it to me to tell her. It came as a great shock to her and I thought at first that we had made a big mistake. However, rather than turning away from him, Anna cooled a little towards me. They became even closer ...’

  ‘How do you explain that?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘I think she sensed that I didn’t really love him; couldn’t love him ... Yet he loved her, fervently, and he wasn’t even her father ...’

  ‘And the bracelet?’

  ‘I gave it to her as a twenty-first birthday present. That, and a trip to Australia. Nikolai was against the trip, but one of her closest friends – Julia, an English girl she’d met in Switzerland – was going and she desperately wanted to go with her. The rest you know.’

  ‘The other missing girl?’ asked Jack. The countess nodded sadly. ‘We spent several months in Australia after Anna disappeared. The police were wonderful. They did all they could, especially one man. For a while, the loss bound us together. But then, with all hope gone, there was nothing left, only pain. Lonely pain, the worst kind. Nikolai went back to England, a broken man, and immersed himself in his work. I came here and converted the family chateau into a hotel. A year later we divorced,’ she said sadly. ‘Just before he received the Nobel Prize. Personal tragedy next to professional triumph – ironic, don’t you think? There’s one more thing you should know: Nikolai firmly believed that Anna was dead. I didn’t; I still don’t.’

  Just then a clock began to chime – it was 2 am. The countess glanced at the clock.

  ‘But enough of all that. I have kept you up too long already. Look at the time. How selfish of me,’ she said, turning again into the attentive hostess. ‘You must be exhausted. We can talk more in the morning. I’ll walk with you to your suite – come.’

  9

  Kuragin Chateau, 17 January, 3 a.m.

  Unable to sleep, Jack stared at the ceiling. His body was exhausted but his mind refused to rest.

  ‘I know Anna is alive,’ he heard the countess whisper time and time again. ‘Nikolai has given up hope, but not I. Do you believe in destiny, Mr Rogan? I know you do ... I know you do ... I know you do ...’

  Jack got out of bed, put on his tracksuit and walked downstairs. It was four in the morning. The logs in the fireplace had mostly turned to ash, but embers still glowed in the dark like restless eyes of demons watching. Something drew Jack towards the chapel. Bumping into furniture, he walked along the dimly lit corridor until he found what he was looking for.

  The countess was kneeling in front of the altar. The candle next to Anna’s picture had gone out. Jack felt like an intruder and tried to look away but couldn’t. Instead, he watched the countess – motionless as a statue – praying next to her daughter’s photo. After a while, he turned around, tiptoed out of the chapel and quietly closed the door.

  ‘My father was fascinated by Goya,’ murmured the countess. Startled, Jack spun around.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Coming closer, she put her hand reassuringly on his arm and left it there. Well aware of the effect she had on men, the countess lowered her voice. ‘I couldn’t sleep either. I heard you come into the chapel before. I was expecting you. Strange isn’t it?’

  Jack liked the intimacy of her touch. ‘Not everyone has a Goya in the hallway,’ he replied, looking at the painting. ‘We are only the custodians – usually for a very short time – of other men’s genius. One cannot own it. It’s timeless and belongs to everyone.’

  What an extraordinary man, thought the countess, feeling something long forgotten stir inside her. ‘Unfortunately, not everyone thinks that way,’ she said. ‘Come into the kitchen. I’ll make us some tea.’

  A tantalising aroma of toasted almonds and spices hung in the warm air.

  ‘Cook never lets the fire g
o out in here,’ said the countess. ‘That’s why it’s the cosiest place in the house. And the most popular.’

  ‘Isn’t this beautiful?’ said Jack, pointing to a large urn standing on the kitchen table.

  ‘That’s a samovar, for making tea. My grandmother brought it with her from our dacha. It has been in our family forever. A tea urn warming generations.’

  Jack pulled the bench closer to the table and sat down.

  ‘This was my grandmother’s favourite place,’ said the countess. ‘I sat here often, listening to stories of long Russian winters and sleigh rides through magic forests frozen in time.’ The childhood memories brought a fleeting smile to the countess’ wan face. ‘Anna is the last one. The end of the line. She’s my only child.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘The Revolution and the War have decimated our family,’ continued the countess. ‘My parents loved it here. Many of their friends went to the Riviera, but that was not for the Kuragins. You know what my father thought of the Riviera?’

  ‘Tell me?’

  ‘A sunny place for shady people, he used to call it.’ The countess poured the tea and handed Jack a cup.

  ‘You appreciate art, don’t you?’ she asked, putting her hand on Jack’s arm.

  ‘I do. It can tell us so much more than words alone. Just like the human touch ...’

  Smiling, the countess withdrew her hand and pointed to a painting hanging on the kitchen wall. Bold brush strokes and vibrant colour captured the soul of a spring garden viewed through an open window. ‘What do you think of that?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ replied Jack. ‘Echoes of Renoir.’

  ‘Anna painted that when she was fourteen. She was very talented, even as a child. We used to spend hours together in the Louvre. Italian Renaissance painters were her favourites. She adored Filippo Lippi. She was due to start art school in Paris after her return ...’

  ‘How extraordinary.’

  ‘May I call you Jack?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And please ... call me Katerina,’ said the countess, smiling reassuringly at Jack. ‘This is an intimate place and an intimate hour.’

  ‘It sure is.’

  The countess reached across the table and put her hand again on his. ‘You are right about the human touch ... What did you mean when you said earlier that you intend to find out?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a journalist, a freelancer. Putting it bluntly, I look for interesting stories. More often than not, they find me,’ Jack said, searching for the right way to continue without offending the countess. ‘However, this is now more than just an interesting story. This is a mystery and a challenge. I want to know, have to know ...’

  ‘If Anna wrote those words? If she’s perhaps still ...? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘That, and more ...’

  ‘Are you prepared to go all the way?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Then let me help you. There was this police officer in Alice Springs – Andrew Simpson, the one I mentioned earlier – who was different from all the others.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He never gave up. He too believed, against all odds. Just like me ...’

  ‘That Anna was alive?’

  The countess nodded. ‘But the case was closed. Yet there was so much more. Much, much more. You must talk to him.’

  ‘I will.’

  Reaching for Jack’s hand, the countess put the bracelet into his palm.

  ‘Take it. It will guide you to her. I firmly believe that.’

  Then slowly, she leant across and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. He’s crying, thought the countess, noticing the tears glistening in Jack’s eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. Overcome by the beauty and sadness of the moment, Jack tried to control his racing emotions. The fascinating woman sitting so close to him drew him irresistibly towards her. He could feel the warmth of her body and the scent of her perfume, radiating allure and excitement.

  ‘We only met a few hours ago, yet you entrust me with something so precious,’ he said, choking. ‘Why?’

  ‘Intuition. Time and trust have nothing to do with each other. The length of days doesn’t shape character. I’m sure you know that.’

  Realising that there was only one way to respond to this, Jack took the shy boy’s leap into the unknown. ‘May I kiss you?’ he whispered.

  Surprised, the countess looked at him. ‘You are asking for permission?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘I’m sure you know the answer to that too,’ she said, closing her eyes.

  A rush of excitement washed over Jack as his lips brushed against hers and then locked in a kiss.

  Feeling a little dizzy, the countess realised that she had already gone further than she should. It was a fine line between magic and regret. Leaning across the table she blew out the candle and watched the little plume of smoke spiral lazily towards the ceiling. Jack understood exactly what she had done: she had extinguished the flame before it could consume them both.

  After a little while the countess stood up – reluctantly, thought Jack – adjusted her silk dressing gown and looked at him.

  ‘God be with you, Jack,’ she whispered, and then hurried out of the kitchen.

  Jack and Rebecca were the only guests having breakfast in the glass conservatory the next morning. It was quite early, and the others were still in their rooms.

  Divided by a thin sheet of glass, two worlds were rubbing shoulders: outside, it was winter. The snow-covered garden looked bleak with the frozen ponds and leafless branches of the oak trees and maples dreaming of spring. Inside, however, is was cosy and warm. Filled with ferns, flowering cacti and exotic palms, the atmosphere in the conservatory was almost tropical, conjuring up images of golden beaches and sunshine.

  Sitting back in his comfortable cane chair, Jack was enjoying his second cup of coffee when the countess sent her apologies. She was unwell, the maid explained, and wouldn’t be able to see them before they left.

  Rebecca noticed a subtle mood change in Jack, and decided to investigate.

  ‘A little sleepwalking last night?’ she asked, buttering her toast.

  ‘Oh, you heard me. I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘So you went to explore the sleeping house instead,’ teased Rebecca.

  ‘Not quite. I went back to the chapel. The countess was there; praying.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We went into the kitchen and had a chat ...’

  ‘At three in the morning?’ asked Rebecca, carefully watching Jack. Noticing the melancholic look in his eyes, she sensed that there had to be more to this.

  ‘Yes. And she gave me this.’ Jack pulled the bracelet out of his pocket and put it on the table next to his cup. Rebecca looked at it, surprised.

  ‘She gave it back to you?’ she asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m going to find out what happened to Anna.’

  ‘You promised?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And when, may I ask, are you going to fit all this in?’

  Jack shrugged and kept staring dreamily out the window. Rebecca decided to drop the subject for now. If we’d shared a bedroom, none of this would have happened, she thought, marvelling at how the right decision made the night before, could look so wrong in the morning. The countess must have turned his head, thought Rebecca, a stubborn little needle of jealousy pricking at her heart. Men!

  ‘We have to go,’ she said, standing up. ‘Your London commitments are waiting.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’

  When Jack went to pay the bill, he was told there wasn’t one. Instead, he was handed an envelope. Inside was Anna’s photograph from the chapel. Written on the back was a date – obviously Anna’s date of birth – with a dash after it, but nothing else.

  10

  First visit to Wolf’s Lair, 21 February

  ‘What on earth is that?’ asked Rebecca, pointing to the huge motorbike parked in the drivew
ay of Jack’s house.

  She paid the taxi driver and walked across to where Jack was polishing the chrome handlebars. ‘Last time it was furniture, now this. I’m getting worried about you, Jack.’

  ‘This is a chopper. Every biker’s dream,’ he answered, proudly patting the saddle of the gleaming machine.

  ‘Where did you get it from?’ she asked.

  ‘It belongs to Will. He lets me use it whenever I like. Isn’t she a beauty?’

  ‘Looks powerful.’

  ‘Sure is. You’re wearing your jeans. Good girl.’

  ‘Oh no ... we’re not ...’ protested Rebecca, stepping back.

  ‘Oh yes, we are,’ replied Jack, enjoying himself. ‘You wanted to come along to meet the Wizard, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but ...’

  ‘Did you really think we would arrive by hire car at the clubhouse?’ Jack began to laugh. ‘No way! Here, this is for you.’ Jack handed Rebecca a black helmet. ‘I hope it fits.’

  Rebecca looked at him dumbfounded. ‘I’m not doing this.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Black. Should go well with the designer jeans and your suede jacket. At least try it on.’

  Twenty minutes later they were ready to leave. ‘Are you sure you can drive this?’ asked Rebecca, looking suspiciously at the bike.

  ‘Trust me. Helmet looks great with the shades,’ he teased. ‘Your New York buddies would be impressed.’

  He adjusted his own helmet, put on his aviator sunglasses and started up the bike. It roared into life with a deafening bang.

  ‘Hop on,’ shouted Jack, checking the traffic, ‘and hold on tight, Easy Rider.’