Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

Victor looked at the glass of tea that Seraphima offered him, and shook his head. ‘I think, Seraphima,’ he said, complacently, ‘that in this one instance a glass of something a little stronger is called for?’

  Chapter Three

  The sudden shrill of the doorbell almost made Yelena jump from her skin. She was standing by the parlour window looking out into the steel-grey light of a late February day. A slight thaw had set in, long icicles dripped from the eaves, patches of snow had slid from the tiles and the snow in the streets had turned overnight to slush. It was too early for the true spring thaw, but after a month of bitter weather it was as if here was a promise that winter would not always hold the city in its harsh grip. ‘Seraphima! There’s someone at the door!’

  ‘Seraphima has a mouthful of pins.’ Varya’s light voice, calling from the bedroom, was quick with irritation. ‘For goodness’ sake, Lenka, you know we’re busy in here! Open the door yourself.’

  The bell rang again, a long, impatient-sounding peal.

  Muttering under her breath Yelena went out into the small hall and opened the front door. A man, tall and narrow-shouldered, stood on the ill-lit landing, briefcase in hand. ‘This is the apartment of Victor Valerievich Shalakov?’ The voice was sharp and precise, chill as the draught that scurried about the stairwell.

  ‘It is, yes.’ From downstairs came the muted and haunting sound of a violin. The music tailed away, then started again, the phrase repeated.

  ‘I wish to see him, if you please.’ The stranger moved forward, arrogantly confident.

  Yelena stood her ground. ‘He isn’t here. He’s probably at the shop on the Nevsky Prospekt.’

  The man peered at her. In the half-dark Yelena caught an impression of slanting eyes, long and black as beads of jet in a face as sharp as a rat’s. He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve just come from there. He left some time ago. I’ll wait, if you please. I’m sure he’ll want to see me. My name is Donovalov. Pavel Petrovich Donovalov.’ He waited for a moment, obviously expecting a reaction. ‘I can assure you he’ll want to see me, my dear,’ he said again, insistently, his voice suddenly softer, almost intimate. With a surge of outraged embarrassment she realized that the black eyes had slid from hers and were openly and with slow deliberation appreciatively scanning her body. It was a long moment before he raised his interested gaze to hers again. ‘Perhaps you’d tell your mistress I’m here?’

  Yelena stepped back. ‘I’m not –’ Before she could finish he had brushed past her and into the hall; and as he passed she felt, with no shadow of doubt, the fingers of his lifted hand graze the fullness of her breasts. Rigid with indignation she glared at him. ‘If you’ll wait a moment,’ she said, her voice not quite as steady as she would have wished, ‘I’ll tell my mother you’re here.’ She noted with some satisfaction the flash of surprise and understanding in his face before she turned from him; saw also to her mortification that it was swiftly followed by the ghost of an unpleasant and totally impenitent smile.

  He executed a small and surely mocking little bow. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  She felt the black eyes, sharp and probing, like fingers upon her back as she left him.

  Her mother was in her bedroom, standing upon a stool, the gown that Seraphima was altering pinned about her. A cup of chocolate cooled upon the table. Varya glanced up abstractedly as Yelena entered. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A man, Mama. He says his name is Donovalov.’

  Varya shook her head absently. ‘I know no-one of that name. Seraphima, a little lower here, don’t you think? The fashions in Petersburg do seem to be rather more –’

  ‘He’s come to see Papa. I’ve told him he isn’t here but he insists on waiting. Mama –’

  Varya flapped her hand, not looking at her. ‘Lenka, dear, you can see I’ve no time at the moment. I’m hardly dressed to entertain gentlemen callers, am I?’

  ‘This,’ Lenka said, a little desperately, ‘is not a gentleman, Mama. He’s positively horrible.’

  Varya was barely listening. ‘Make him tea or something. Papa won’t be long, I dare say. Seraphima, do be careful! You scratched me with that pin, clumsy girl!’

  Seraphima, kneeling before her, mumbled apologies, caught Yelena’s eyes and turned her own to heaven and sighed in a parody of patience.

  ‘Mama, must I? Can’t I go downstairs and fetch Anna? She spends more time down there than she does up here lately – and I really don’t want to –’

  ‘Lenka!’ Her mother jerked her head, sharply and impatiently. ‘Nanny Irisha is in the kitchen. Fetch her if you must. Now for goodness’ sake – go and make some tea.’

  In the kitchen the old woman was settled comfortably in a battered chair by the warm range, sound asleep. ‘Nanny? Nanny, please,’ Yelena hissed, shaking her. ‘Nanny, wake up!’

  The old woman grunted, shifted, snored the louder.

  ‘Nanny!’

  ‘Let the poor old monster sleep for heaven’s sake.’ The cold voice was amused. Yelena spun round. The man Donovalov leaned in the doorway, watching her. Her hand flew to the buttons of her high-necked blouse, suddenly certain, from the look in his eyes, that they must be undone.

  He laughed. ‘Do you consider that I owe you an apology?’ He let a small, suggestive silence grow before adding, ‘For taking you for a servant, that is?’

  She backed away from him, collided with the table. ‘I – suppose I do. Yes.’

  ‘Then I apologize.’ His smile was the most unpleasant thing she had ever seen; it invested his thin, rat-like face with an almost demonic ugliness. Instinctively she sensed cruelty in the man. The intent black eyes roved about her face and her body with a relentless intimacy that almost paralysed her with embarrassment and terror. The openness of his regard made her feel as if she were allowing him to handle her, as if she were in some way encouraging him deliberately to humiliate her and, even inexperienced as she was, she saw from his smile his pleasure in her obvious fear and confusion. Sweat broke out on her skin; clammy on her back, prickling horribly between her breasts. She hunched her shoulders, crossed her arms before her, tense as a spring. ‘My – my mother is busy at the moment I’m afraid. Perhaps you’d like to come back later – I’m sure Papa will be –’

  ‘You haven’t told me your name.’

  She stood, trapped and helpless. ‘Yelena,’ she whispered. The probing eyes stripped her, assessed her, shamed her; worse, they touched knowingly upon hers, as if the man sensed precisely the terrible treachery of her body, the lush, woman’s body that she hated so much.

  ‘Yelena,’ he repeated. ‘Well, Yelena Victorovna, are you not going to offer your guest a glass of tea?’

  Tea, samovar and glasses were in the sitting room. On trembling legs she started towards the door. He did not move. A foot from him she stopped, her head raised defiantly, refusing to pass so close. The slanting eyes in the narrow face watched her steadily. Fierce colour stained her neck, her face, blotched the white skin of her arms.

  He stepped back.

  As she passed him she heard the sound of her father’s key in the lock.

  ‘Papa!’ She all but ran along the corridor to the sitting room, dashed across it to the door that led into the small hall. Clumsily she threw it open, all but fell through it. ‘Papa, a man is here to see you –’

  Victor, in the act of removing hat and gloves, looked up sharply, frowning, mouth tightening in irritation. ‘For God’s sake, child, must you always behave like a bull in a barn? What man?’

  Sullenly Yelena glared down at her feet. ‘A man named Donovalov.’

  Her father stilled, eyes suddenly very sharp. ‘Donovalov? What in the world is he doing here?’

  ‘I don’t know. He –’

  Her father ignored her. Still wearing his heavy shuba he brushed past her, hand outstretched. ‘Pavel Petrovich – what an unexpected pleasure. What brings you here? No problems, I trust?’

  The other man shrugged. ‘Nothing that can’t be dealt with swiftly and to both o
ur satisfaction, I’m sure, Victor Valerievich,’ he said, smoothly.

  Victor rubbed the flat of his hand upon the heavy fur of his coat. ‘I thought –’ He stopped. ‘Lenka!’ he snapped. ‘For heaven’s sake, what have you been about? Light the samovar. Pavel Petrovich, make yourself at home – you’ll take tea, of course – I’ll take off my coat.’

  In amazement Yelena heard the slight trembling of her father’s voice, saw a faint anxious sheen of perspiration bloom upon the skin of his face. Heavily she moved to the table where the samovar stood. Donovalov watched her, that faint, hatefully sardonic smile upon his face again. Clumsier than ever beneath his eyes she lit the silver samovar, set out the glasses. ‘All right, Yelena. I’ll do the rest. There’s no need for you to stay.’ Her father had re-entered the room. ‘Where are the others?’

  Yelena hunched her shoulders, avoiding those questing eyes. ‘Mama’s in the bedroom – Seraphima’s altering a dress for her. Dmitri’s at school, and Rita’s gone to the tutor.’ To Margarita’s huge disgust a tutor had been engaged to ensure her passage through the examination that would take her to the local Gymnasium. ‘Anna’s downstairs, practising.’

  ‘And an elderly monster is snoring by the kitchen stove,’ Donovalov put in. ‘Is that the roll call of your household, Victor Valerievich?’

  ‘Indeed it is, indeed it is.’ Yelena was amazed at her father’s almost eager acceptance of the man’s effrontery. ‘Very well, Lenka, perhaps the best thing would be for you to join your sister downstairs. Pavel Petrovich and I have business matters to discuss.’ He shot a faintly questioning glance at the other man who inclined his head, smiling. ‘I’ll send Seraphima for you when we’re finished.’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’ With enormous relief Yelena started towards the door.

  ‘A moment, my dear.’

  She froze.

  Donovalov came to her, reached for her hand, bent to brush it with dry, hard lips. ‘I must thank you for –’ he hesitated for long enough to bring further furious colour to her cheeks ‘– entertaining me so well.’

  She tried to pull her hand away, but it was trapped in strong, bony fingers whose grip was harsh enough to bring pain. She stood quite still, fingers rigid in his. After a moment he straightened, dropping her hand, turning back to her father, dismissing her.

  She shut the door behind her, leaned against it, grateful for the clean, cold air that brushed her cheeks and cooled her skin. The sound of Anna’s violin drifted up the stairwell. She stood quite still for a moment, breathing deeply. Sweat was drying on her body. She could feel it. Smell it. She felt dirty. She remembered those slanting, brutally questing eyes; what in the name of God was her father doing associating with such a man? A blisteringly cold draught gusted up the stairs. She shivered suddenly; but whether from cold or from the disgust and fear brought by the memory of those eyes she could not tell. Hunched against the cutting cold she ran swiftly down the stairs to Andrei’s rooms.

  As she reached the door the music stopped, and she heard Andrei’s quiet voice, then Anna’s. She pushed open the door. ‘Anna –’

  Anna did not look up. She stood, instrument and bow poised, beside Andrei, whose varnish-stained long finger marked a place upon a sheet of music propped upon a music stand. As Yelena shut the door quietly behind her Anna brought bow to string and played again, the same haunting phrase Yelena had heard earlier. Andrei’s face relaxed and he smiled, watching her. Anna’s eyes flickered to his, and her own brief answering smile was as sure a communication as words. They stood together, enclosed and encircled by the music, as Anna, fierce with concentration, played the difficult phrase through to the end and then stopped, the last, unfinished note hanging in the air like a promise unspoken.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Andrei said, quietly. ‘That was truly lovely, Anna. You’ve got it.’ His right hand, as usual, was in his pocket, his left lying relaxed upon the music stand.

  ‘Anna,’ Yelena said again.

  Anna flicked an absent smile at her. ‘Oh. Hello, Lenka. Do you really think so?’ The question was not addressed to Yelena.

  ‘Absolutely. It was that middle phrase, there –’ Andrei pointed, hummed a few notes. Anna picked up the tune on the violin and played again, easily this time, the timing perfect.

  ‘Papa sent me down,’ Yelena said, too loudly. ‘He’s got an absolutely horrible man up there with him. I can’t think what he’s up to doing business with such a rat-faced pig.’

  That did the trick. Two pairs of startled eyes were turned to hers. Andrei’s dark eyebrows shot almost to his silvered hair, eyes gleaming with surprised amusement. Anna was not so restrained. She exploded into laughter at the childish phrase. ‘Lenka! Honestly! What a thing to say!’

  ‘Well, he is.’ Obscurely gratified to have shattered that odd, almost palpable, magic circle of music that had for those few moments stood between her and her sister Yelena pulled a fearsome face. ‘He’s the most awful man. Horrible! And Papa’s drinking tea with him! Ugh!’ She shuddered exaggeratedly, rather enjoying the drama and attention. ‘I’d as soon drink tea with – with the devil himself!’

  ‘What’s this gruesome creature’s name?’ Andrei had gone into the other room, there was the clink of tea glasses.

  Yelena wandered into the room, stood behind her sister looking over her shoulder at the music on the stand. ‘Donovalov,’ she called, in answer to her uncle’s question. Then, ‘Goodness, that looks difficult. I’m not surprised you were having problems.’

  ‘Donovalov?’ Andrei had appeared at the living-room door. ‘Hasn’t Victor mentioned his name in connection with the Imperial contract?’

  Anna shook her head, abstractedly, her eyes still thoughtfully upon the music score. Yelena shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  Anna lifted her head. ‘Why has he come to the apartment, do you think? Could there be some kind of problem?’

  ‘Who knows? Probably not. Come on, you two – tea and cakes. Lenka, I found an article in a magazine the other day that I thought might interest you –’

  It was an hour before Seraphima tapped on the door to tell them that they were expected upstairs. ‘Such goings on!’ she giggled to Anna. ‘The young people are home and the poor little lamb is in a great taking about these examinations she must pass. Varya Petrovna has burned the rice again and is in a great temper and demanding to employ a cook, and your Papa is asking to know if she thinks that the money for such things grows on trees –’

  ‘Is that dreadful man gone?’ Yelena demanded.

  Seraphima shrugged. ‘I fetched his coat and hat before I came down. Now, I must run back – heaven only knows what state the kitchen will be in.’ She lifted her skirts and hurried back up the stairs.

  The others followed more slowly. As they reached the front door it opened to reveal Victor and his visitor. They stepped back to allow the man through. He nodded politely, smiled at Yelena. She dropped her gaze to the scuffed toes of her boots. ‘There!’ she hissed at Anna as they went into the warm hallway. ‘You see?’

  Anna laughed. ‘He was no oil painting, certainly, but he didn’t seem such a monster to me.’

  Yelena’s lips tightened. Just the sight of the man had brought the rise of instant fear, instant loathing; and something else – something unnatural, and most certainly shameful. And he had seen it. She was certain of that. She kicked off her boots, slipped her feet into the slippers that stood waiting. ‘Go help your mother in the kitchen, Yelena,’ her father said, sharply. She glanced at him. He was watching her, unsmiling; something in his face made her hesitate for a moment, thinking he was about to say more. But, ‘Go on, go on,’ he said, testily, and turned away.

  Anna tidied the boots, slipped her own slippers on. Her father did not immediately follow the others into the sitting room but stood for a long moment, staring into space, lost in thought.

  ‘Papa? Is anything the matter?’

  He turned unfocused eyes upon her. ‘What? Oh – no, my dear, of course not.’


  ‘Uncle Andrei thought the man Donovalov had come about the Imperial contract. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘And is all well?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’ve said. Everything is fine. It’s just –’ he hesitated for a moment ‘– just going to be a little more costly than I anticipated, that’s all. Now, Anna, do run along and see what you can do in the kitchen. I greatly fear that dinner will be ruined again.’

  * * *

  ‘Prague.’ Katya propped her chin upon her hand, looked with every appearance of deep thought down at the map spread before her. ‘Dear M’sieu, I’m sorry – I have no idea where it might be.’ She added after a moment, candidly cheerful, ‘I’ve been there of course –’ her French was every bit as polished as her tutor’s ‘– it’s an enchanting city.’ She sent a sly, laughing glance at Anna. ‘But for heaven’s sake, one doesn’t need too much knowledge of geography to board a train, does one? Paris, now.’ She cocked her fair head. ‘I just might be able to find Paris on your tiresome little map.’ Then, with mocking honesty, ‘Though to be truthful I doubt it. Dear M’sieu Drapin – can’t we dispense with Prague and Paris for the day?’ Her smile was winning. ‘Just look at the weather, it’s just perfect for skating – and it may be the last opportunity of the season. It isn’t often we get such a cold snap so late. Easter’s only a couple of weeks away. It will be spring soon, with all that dreadful slush and mud – no opportunity to exercise at all – and you know Papa is very keen that I should get as much exercise as possible.’

  ‘Mam’selle! Please!’ The much-tried Monsieur Drapin held up two small, perfectly-manicured hands in dramatic gesture.

  Katya subsided, grinning.

  ‘I am employed, Mam’selle Katya,’ the Frenchman said, in his precisely-accented French, ‘to educate you. To instil some knowledge of the world into that pretty head of yours.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll find there’s plenty of that in there already,’ Katya assured him, brightly.