Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  ‘Papa, please.’ Desperate, she caught his hand. ‘Couldn’t Seraphima manage on her own? You know I’m not good at such things.’

  He disengaged his hand with a look of such distaste that she stepped back from him, biting her lip. ‘You must become good at such things, my dear.’ His voice was cold. ‘What kind of a wife will you make if you don’t learn the social graces? This is as good an opportunity as any.’

  ‘Papa – please – I can’t! I –’ She hesitated, plunged on. ‘I don’t like Pavel Petrovich, he frightens me -’

  Margarita had lifted her head, perched her chin upon her bunched fist and was watching and listening with avid interest. Varya’s head was bent absorbedly over her work.

  Victor crushed the paper into his lap, eyes fierce with anger; with anger and with something else, some edge of understanding, almost of guilt, infinitely bewildering, infinitely frightening. ‘What nonsense! Enough of this, girl! You’ll stay, and you’ll do as you’re told. There’s an end.’

  Blindly Yelena turned from him and walked from the room. Out into the hall. Through the front door. Down the stairs. Her jaw was clenched, her lower lip caught painfully between her teeth. Why? In God’s name, why had Ratface insisted that she be there? And why was Papa so adamant that she should stay? She shook her head fiercely. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t! Anna would understand. Anna would know what to do. Anna would help her.

  She stopped on the last flight of stairs that led to the door of the workshop, standing quite still, arrested in her flight, one hand clasping the smooth, cold banister. From within came the soft murmur of voices. A small, dashing phrase of music, full of laughter. Another, as a second instrument joined in with the first, a game, a laughing duet, the music glittering and dancing like sunshine on running water. Faster and faster they played, to a climax that brought a peal of laughter from Anna.

  Yelena stood there, listening; listening to the music, and to the laughter in which she had no part. Then, shoulders drooping, she sank down onto the filthy stairs, her knees drawn to her breast, her arms folded upon them. She sat so for a long time, shivering in the gnawing cold, staring into the darkness, barely blinking. At last, in a small, helpless gesture of unhappiness she bowed her head, resting her forehead on her arms. It was the only movement she made.

  Inside the room Anna slipped the violin carefully into its battered case, together with the bow that her uncle had given her. She was breathless with laughter. ‘I really must go. It’s past dinner time. Are you eating with us tonight?’

  Andrei, packing away his own instrument, shook his head, smiling. ‘No. I’m dining with a friend.’

  Anna was surprised at the surge of disappointment his answer brought. ‘Oh.’ She slipped her arms into the coat he held for her. ‘Tomorrow perhaps?’

  ‘Almost certainly tomorrow, yes.’

  ‘Good.’ She stood for a moment, reluctant to leave. In this room over the past weeks she had unexpectedly discovered a haven, a place of music and laughter, of relaxed companionship and of understanding. Here she was not the eldest daughter, eldest sister, responsible, capable, reliable; dull. Here she was simply Anna; here she could live her music with someone who through ties of blood and of shared interest could understand it and her. Each time she left this room to return to the apartment upstairs it was with regret.

  Her uncle was watching her, questioningly. He had a disconcerting way of guessing what went through her mind. Briskly she turned away from him – too briskly, for as she did so her heel caught in the frayed edge of the rug that lay upon the uneven floor. She was standing very close to the hot stove.

  Caught off balance she nearly fell, hands automatically outstretched to save herself. Andrei reached for her quickly, grabbing her arm, swinging her away from the searingly hot metal and steadying her. To save herself from falling she clasped the hand that held her. They stood so for a moment as she regained her balance, and clearly in his eyes she saw him flinch from her, expecting rejection. The hand that had saved her, the hand she held in her own, was his right hand. The maimed hand, distorted, scarred and ugly. The hand he had as far as was possible hidden from her since that first day when she had so clearly shown her horror of it. Abruptly he tried to pull away. She held him. Then with deliberation, her eyes on his, she brought the hand to her face, rested her cheek against it.

  His face changed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  He smiled.

  The scarred skin was warm and oddly smooth against her face. She closed her fingers upon his. She did not want to let him go. Not now. Not ever. And in his eyes too she was sure that she saw –

  Startled, they stepped apart. Andrei shoved his damaged hand deep into his pocket. Anna gathered her coat about her, busily buttoned it and tied the belt, not looking at him. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow.’

  She grabbed her hat and hurried to the door. Opened it. Yelena had come stiffly to her feet when she had heard the music stop. ‘Lenka!’ Anna’s voice was too high, sounded false and silly. She cleared her throat. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came – to tell you it was time to eat. And to –’ She stepped clumsily forward, caught at her sister’s arm. ‘’Noushka, I need to talk to you –’

  ‘Not now, Lenka.’ Anna turned back, caught Andrei’s eyes upon her, ducked her head and headed for the stairs very fast.

  ‘But – Anna, please! It’s important!’

  ‘Lenka, for heaven’s sake! It’s freezing! Look at you – you’re shaking!’ Anna herself, she realized, had begun to tremble; it had been too warm in her uncle’s room, she was feeling the sudden cold. She rounded upon her sister. ‘Stupid thing!’ she snapped. ‘Fancy coming down here without even a shawl! Honestly, Lenka, haven’t you the sense you were born with? Come on, now!’ Anna lifted her skirt and fled up the stairs as if the devil were behind her.

  * * *

  Later that night, lying with her back to her sister, her head buried beneath the bedclothes, determinedly feigning sleep, Anna dismissed that ridiculous surge of panic as absurd. Whatever had got into her? What, after all, had actually happened? Nothing that could not be explained by her natural affection for her uncle and his for her. The incident, such as it was, had happened so quickly – it was vague in her mind now, a scene flashed upon her brain like the flickering magic lantern pictures Papa had taken them to see last Christmas. She had held his hand, his poor, maimed hand; and she was glad of it. It was surely the least she could do to repay his kindness to her? Nothing else had happened. Nothing.

  Yelena, beside her, feeling her sister’s warmth, hearing her low, steady breathing, stared grimly into darkness, unhappy, afraid, and utterly alone.

  Chapter Four

  The shop on the Nevsky opened on time, two weeks before Easter, and attracted immediate and distinguished custom.

  Anna loved it. The decor was discreetly and fashionably opulent, the mahogany and brass counters and display cases gleamed, religiously polished each day, as was the wooden floor that was laid with large and extremely expensive softly-coloured rugs. The bevelled and etched glass and mirrors reflected every image and glint of light with sparkling clarity. The best of the instruments were exhibited with loving care, the magnificent sheen and depth of their colour, the masterly craftsmanship that had gone into their making complementing perfectly these surroundings that had been created to display them to just such advantage.

  Varya, eyeing the splendour with a jaundiced eye, complained – predictably, Anna thought – that Victor’s customers enjoyed far greater luxury than did his wife and family.

  ‘But, Mama – can’t you see? This is the Nevsky! It’s important that the shop be comfortable – and beautiful. The customers that Papa wants to attract wouldn’t settle for less. You remember when we visited Monsieur Faberge’s shop and workshop the other day? You loved that, you know you did. It made you feel special. Well – that’s what Papa is trying to create here. The
people who will come to such a shop expect to pay more for the privilege.’

  Varya looked around her, sniffing. Vague and future profits were, to her, much less important than present apparent extravagance; unless of course the extravagance be lavished upon her. ‘With such expense I should hope so!’

  The work rooms above the shop were very much less luxurious. The building fronted the Nevsky with its coffee houses, its confectioners and its fashionable luxury shops, and three large windows looked out across the wide, elegant and always busy avenue. At each window stood a padded workbench, to catch the best of the light, and already the benches were littered with pieces of wood, tools, half-made instruments and those in the process of being renovated or mended. Violins and violas hung from racks on the ceiling, a big old cello leaned against the wall, awaiting attention. There was a large wooden cabinet with what looked like hundreds of tiny drawers, and several wooden boxes containing various pieces that Anna knew had been salvaged from old instruments damaged beyond repair, to be used to restore others. The atmosphere was comfortably warm and dry, and there was a strong smell of varnish. Bags of polishing cloths hung from the benches and there were shavings upon the floor that rustled as she walked through them. Andrei, conducting them around, introduced them with unconcealed pride and pleasure to his craftsmen, perched upon their stools, rough aprons varnish-stained, big, clever hands handling tiny gouges, chisels and planes that looked more suited to a doll’s house than to this great room.

  The oldest of them, introduced as Pyotr Pyotrovich, did not look up from his work as Anna murmured greetings. She watched, fascinated, as with gnarled fingers he used a tiny, gun- metal plane no bigger than the top joint of her own thumb, smoothing and shaping the bleached-looking wood. Beside the man lay an instrument in the process of being varnished and polished. The wood, beautifully grained, glowed like a living thing; Anna longed to touch it, to pick it up and test the weight, the balance. She extended a finger, and then drew back without touching the instrument. ‘It’s very hard to believe,’ she said, voicing a thought that occurred to her not for the first time, ’looking at this – that it’s true that old instruments sound better than new.’

  The old man still did not look at her, nor did the steady, delicate movements of his hands falter. ‘Don’t you believe it, mistress,’ he said. ‘’T’ain’t so.’

  Andrei slanted a look at Anna, smothering a grin.

  ‘An’ what’s more –’ The old head lifted at last. Anna found herself, disconcerted, looking into a pair of alert and piercing eyes. ‘Don’t be fooled by the pretty varnish. God forsaken things’d be a damned sight better off without it.’

  ‘But – I thought –’

  ‘Thinkin’ doesn’t make violins. Hands makes violins. And you can take it from me – the more you tamper the more you spoil.’ The grey head turned again, back to his work.

  Andrei laughed outright. ‘Anna, you of all people must know that there are as many theories about violin making as there are violin makers! Pyotr would have his played –’ he spread his good hand, strong and slender ‘– raw! Looking like a packing case.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But don’t worry, little mistress.’ The man did not take his eyes from his work. ‘Won’t happen. Can’t happen. Pretty. That’s how they want ‘em. Pretty. So I makes ’em so. But they’d sound better if I didn’t. Take it from me.’

  ‘Andrei, Victor said something about tea in his office?’ Varya lifted the hem of her skirt, shook it delicately to dislodge shavings and sawdust.

  Anna blushed, embarrassed. ‘Mama, there are others to meet yet.’

  Varya sighed.

  The lutenist at the middle bench was a shy man in his middle thirties who specialized in intricate repairs. Absorbed, Anna watched him, complimented him on a restored instrument that he showed her, modestly proud. ‘But – you’d never guess it had been repaired! And such a violin! I’d be scared to touch it!’

  ‘A Lupot,’ Andrei said. ‘French, 1800. Lord knows where it’s been, that it should have been so badly treated. Now, come and meet Vladimir. Volodya, here’s Anna Victorovna. I’ve told you of her –’

  The tall young man at the third workbench bowed his head a little and smiled shyly. This, Anna knew, was the young man in whom Andrei had such faith. Already his instruments were spoken of in the same breath as the best of the contemporary Italian and French makers. He was fair, long-legged and thin-faced, his narrow shoulders slightly hunched.

  Andrei laid a light arm across his shoulders. ‘We expect great things from our Volodya. One day you’ll be proud to have met him, you mark my words.’ Again the shy smile. The young man glanced at Andrei from beneath long blond lashes, obviously delighted with the praise, and Anna was struck again by that quality in her uncle that made the most dour of people warm to him. She found it hard to believe that anyone could resist his quiet and good-natured charm; for herself she knew that the move to this new life in a strange city would have been much harder had he not been there. The still slightly uncomfortable memory of that moment of disturbing intimacy in his work room had faded. At first, oversensitively, she had been certain that he, too, was embarrassed – she had feared for the few days that followed that he was avoiding her. But gradually they had slipped back into the old, easy camaraderie and in the end she had almost persuaded herself that she had imagined the whole silly episode. Except that sometimes she found herself watching him: the turn of his head, the slight, crooked smile, his defensive habit of keeping his right hand hidden, and was aware that the depth of feeling that these small things roused in her might be frowned upon by others who might not understand their source. She was not, of course, attracted by Andrei as a man; he was her uncle, such a thing simply was not possible. But, surely, it was perfectly natural that she should love and admire him: as a truly great craftsman, as a courageous man who had outfaced tragedy, as a wise and kindly friend whose affection she treasured. His loneliness – for he was, she somehow instinctively guessed, lonely – touched her, his strange vulnerability aroused her tenderness. That was all. They laughed together, and they shared their music. His rooms were a haven of quiet away from the apartment that lately always seemed riven with squabbles and tensions and Lenka’s sullenness. That was all. She watched him putting the awkward young man at his ease, and smiled.

  ‘Tea,’ Varya said, with patience. ‘Please?’

  ‘Tea, certainly. In Victor’s office.’ Andrei smiled. ‘This way.’

  He led the way into a corridor that was part balcony, overlooking the shop downstairs.

  ‘Where do you work?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Still at home at the moment, but I’m thinking of having the little room next door here converted to a workshop.’ He sent her one of his laughing glances, half-apologetic. ‘I’m not very good at working in company. Ah, here we are. Victor’s office.’

  The room into which he showed them was small, comfortable, one wall booklined and another entirely taken up by a large wooden filing cabinet, its drawers precisely labelled and lettered. The papers on the large desk were tidily stacked, as were the magazines on a nearby table upon which also stood a small samovar. Everything was neat and well-ordered. Anna thought that if she had been shown into this room anywhere in the world she would have guessed that it belonged to her father.

  Andrei was busy with the samovar and tea glasses. ‘Where’s Lenka?’ he asked. ‘I thought she was coming?’

  Varya, settling herself with charming effect into the only comfortable chair, apart from Victor’s, in the room, shrugged irritably. ‘Don’t talk to me about that girl! She really is becoming impossible lately. She decided she would rather stay at home with Seraphima and the children, and to be perfectly frank with you I didn’t try to dissuade her. She walks around with a face like a wet Sunday; I can’t get a word out of her. I really don’t know what’s got into her. Even Anna’s out of sorts with her – aren’t you, dear? – and you know how unusual that is.’

  An
na fiddled a little uncomfortably with her gloves.

  ‘Oh?’ Andrei handed her a glass of tea. ‘What happened?’

  Anna shook her head a little brusquely. ‘Nothing. Lenka was being stupid, that’s all.’

  Andrei’s dark eyebrows lifted. He said nothing, but his look was shrewd and questioning.

  ‘You’re just the same as everyone else!’ Yelena had stormed. ‘You won’t listen to me! You don’t care about me! You promised – you promised! – to speak to Papa about the University! When? When? You spend all your time downstairs with Uncle Andrei and your wretched fiddle! Or giggling with Katya, like stupid children!’

  ‘I don’t! I don’t!’

  ‘Yes, you do! And you don’t see – you don’t see what’s happening right under your nose! You don’t see what they’re doing to me!’

  ‘Lenka, for heaven’s sake! What are you talking about? You’re hysterical.’

  She accepted the tea, not looking directly at her uncle. Only once or twice in their lives had she and Lenka quarrelled, and on each occasion the hurt had been exacerbated by the breaking of a bond usually so firm as to be unquestioned. The problem for Anna this time was that she suspected that right was to a certain extent upon Lenka’s side. It was true that she, Anna, had promised to approach their father about the possibility of the women’s courses at the University. She was aware, too, that of late her attentions had been drawn away from the narrow confines of her home and her sister’s troubles. But wasn’t that natural? They weren’t children any more, after all. She had discovered, a little surprisingly, in these past few weeks that she was tired of this role that had been forced by circumstance upon her; daughter, sister, capable organizer, ever-present help – housekeeper to her father, companion to her mother, stand-in nanny to her brother and sisters – she was tired of it. Just lately she had become aware of a restlessness that until now she would have considered totally alien to her nature. It was as if she stood on the threshold of an exciting and unknown room, or perhaps on a mountaintop waiting for the sun to rise and to reveal – what? ‘I’m sorry?’