Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  ‘I said that you and Lenka have barely spoken in the past few weeks,’ Varya repeated.

  ‘Oh. Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’ In fact, if she had forced herself to honesty, that was indeed exactly the way she would have put it. She and her sister had, in the course of the days, exchanged common or garden words, had passed the butter and the sugar, had complained about Monsieur Drapin’s fixation upon the geography of Europe, had agreed that Cousin Katya had the very easiest of lives of anyone they knew or could imagine – but they had not actually spoken together, not in the old way. Lenka over the past couple of weeks had become more and more sullenly withdrawn, less and less apparently interested in breaking down the barrier that had grown so frighteningly quickly between them. And as for Anna – her secret dreams and fears, her quietly awakening womanhood, were not to be discussed and dissected; she was happy with silence.

  But Lenka? The one thing that Lenka was not was happy, Anna knew that with the certainty that came of love and long association. She sipped her tea. She would talk to Papa about the University. She would. Soon. And perhaps at the same time she might mention how much her sister disliked the attentions of the man Donovalov? Lenka had not actually mentioned the man’s name, but with sure instinct Anna sensed it; twice now Papa had insisted that Lenka be at home when Donovalov visited, and after each occasion her sister’s withdrawn and sullen mood had deepened. There couldn’t possibly be anything in it – the man was at least twice Lenka’s age and a relatively recent widower – but if she could catch Papa in the right mood at least it might help Lenka if she mentioned it?

  ‘You are of course coming to the performance tonight, Andrei?’ Varya trilled laughter like a pretty bird, accepted her glass with a smile and a dip of her long lashes. She could not, Anna noted with some exasperation, resist flirting even with a man who was brother to her husband. ‘Rita will be so disappointed if you don’t. She’s worked so hard at her little play – and the scenery she’s painted – it’s absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘I think little Natalia painted most of the scenery, Mama,’ Anna murmured, scrupulously fair. They had all spent the past three evenings listening to Margarita ordering her quiet and unassuming schoolfriend about and scolding her like a recalcitrant servant; the child surely deserved the credit for the hard work she had done. Credit, Anna guessed, that in the light of her devotion to Margarita she would never claim for herself.

  Varya waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, fiddlesticks. The child’s like a little mouse. I can’t imagine what Rita sees in her. So, Andrei – you will come?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come. Of course. On one condition.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘That you all join me to watch the midnight procession at St Isaac’s on Easter Eve. It’s the most wonderful sight – something not to be missed on your first Easter in St Petersburg.’

  ‘Oh, Mama! May we?’

  Varya tilted her head prettily to one side. ‘We should ask your Papa.’

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ Andrei said. ‘And if he agrees, you’ll come?’

  Anna’s mother smiled her most charming smile. ‘Of course. We’d love to.’

  Margarita’s play was to be performed that evening after supper – a supper that, as it had for the past Lenten weeks, consisted of fish and vegetables only. The Shalakov household was not a particularly religious one, but Victor insisted upon the outward observance of traditions that he considered to be a mark of decency and respectability, so during Lent there were no eggs, no butter, no meat, and dining the week that led to Easter the family would live upon vegetables only; a hardship for which, as in almost every household in Russia, high or low, the feast to be mounted upon Easter Sunday and Monday would more than compensate.

  The little theatre was set upon the table in the parlour, draped tablecloths hiding the human participants in the drama, a cunningly placed lamp set to illuminate the tiny, colourful cardboard characters as they moved about the stage on their lengths of wire. The audience – consisting of the entire family plus the conscripted Nanny Irisha, Seraphima, and Sonya, the somewhat forbiddingly efficient new cook – sat obediently quiet upon the chairs that Margarita had persuaded, or to be more exact ordered, Dmitri to set into a row across the room. Margarita was in her element. ‘No, no, Natalia! The princess doesn’t begin the scene there, stupid thing! Do read the notes! There, that’s right. And do make sure the curtains lift right back when you open them. Are we ready?’

  Her faithful acolyte nodded, meekly.

  Margarita lifted her voice a little. ‘All right, Anna. We’re ready –’

  Anna, standing in the shadows at the back of the room, lifted her violin, settled it snugly upon her shoulder and played softly the pretty tune that her sister had chosen as the overture to her play.

  Andrei glanced around at her, his smile warm. He loved the way she played the instrument; even soundless the very picture she made, the delicate line of hand and arm, the poise of instrument and bow, held for him a perfect beauty.

  And in Anna’s heart at the sight of that smile sudden and tender happiness lifted. It showed on her face, the narrow, high-boned and usually serious face beneath its cloud of bright hair. It shone with innocent serenity from her eyes and softened the line of her mouth. Their eyes held, for the briefest of moments, a natural and secret communication across the overcrowded, darkened room. The music linked them like a fragile strand of silk.

  Very abruptly Andrei turned away.

  Upon the table the artfully-contrived curtain lifted to reveal prince, princess and a charmingly-painted walled garden in perfect miniature. There was a smattering of applause; the play was under way.

  Andrei sat, very straight and very still, seeing nothing. The bright cardboard figures jerked, their lines proclaimed with verve and vigour. Behind him Anna’s flawless touch upon her instrument sent the music rippling towards him, silken ribbons to bind his heart. He knew she was watching him, with that shocking, unwary happiness shining from her face. He could feel it, like the bruising aftermath of a blow. He closed his eyes, took a deep slow breath, forcing himself to face at last the shattering thing that had happened to him; the monstrous thing that had been lurking beneath the conscious surface of his life for weeks.

  The gaudy figures were propelled stiffly back and forth across the stage. ‘Betrayed!’ the princess cried dramatically, her cardboard face smiling blankly. ‘My heart is broken! I shall never love again!’

  I shall never love again.

  That, indeed, was what he had believed. In the years that had followed Galina’s death nothing and no-one had touched him. So great had been the pain, so harrowing the torment, that he had truly believed himself crippled by it, as surely inwardly in the mind and heart as outwardly in the mangled hand. No-one knew – no-one would ever know – the despair he had suffered at her loss. That there could be anyone who could touch that same chord in him, who could rouse in him the same aching depths of love and tenderness had seemed a simple impossibility.

  The brokenhearted, if practical, princess had decided, with commendable speed, to marry for money. And to the man who can fill this garden with gold, I shall give my hand –’

  God Almighty. The breathtaking cruelty of fate. Almost he laughed aloud. Not more pain, surely? Was it possible?

  Anna had stopped playing, awaiting her carefully rehearsed cue towards the end of the scene. Andrei could see her young face as if, illuminated by a torch’s flame, she were kneeling before him. Not, measured by the world’s standards, what might be called a pretty face. But arresting; and unique. The pale skin, freckled like a child’s, the light, clear eyes, lucent as water, the straight, uncompromising mouth, the patience, the humour, the hidden glimpses of a character fuelled by a passion as yet unacknowledged, released only through her music. He felt again her impulsive grip on his ugly, damaged hand, the warmth of her soft cheek against the scarred skin.

  The violin played a brisk fanfare to herald the end of the first act and was fo
llowed by an enthusiastic round of applause. A bright-faced, tousled Margarita appeared from beneath the enveloping tablecloth looking bewitchingly pretty. ‘The second act takes place at night, so Dmitri has to fetch a smaller lamp.’ There was a short period of activity then, the lighting suitably dimmed, Margarita disappeared again.

  He must, of course, take serious steps. They must see less of each other. The child must be discouraged from coming to visit him. He should perhaps spend more time at the workshop; unhomelike as it was, the empty room beside Victor’s office would be just as good a place to work as the room downstairs. He must at all costs keep her from hurt.

  Exotic suitors by the dozen were appearing on stage, gold – in the form of the gold-leafed walnuts left over from the decoration of the Christmas tree and begged from Varya as being essential to the plot – appeared in cardboard wheelbarrows, in a cleverly contrived troika, in a sledge drawn by awkward-looking cardboard reindeer. The princess dismissed all as unworthy. When the handsome young peasant appeared – his paper rags barely concealing the princely garb beneath – Dmitri, upon hissed instructions from under the tablecloth, scrambled for another lamp.

  ‘I’ll fill your garden with gold, my princess – with the gold of the early morning sun – see, the sunrise!’

  ‘Oh, lovely! Victor, look! – how clever!’ Varya clapped her hands like a child.

  The last scene showed the obligatory wedding, during which the humble peasant was revealed to have been a handsome prince all along and everyone was declared to be certain of living happily ever after. Anna played a spirited finale with a flourish and the whole thing ended in applause and congratulations which Margarita accepted with becoming modesty. Victor, expansive, enjoying for however brief a moment this role as head of a contented and talented household, suggested, as lamps were turned up and the chairs moved back to more normal positions, that Anna might play for them a little longer.

  ‘Of course, Papa. What would you like to hear?’

  ‘You choose, my dear.’

  ‘Glazunov. You’d like something by Glazunov?’ She knew him to be one of her father’s favourite composers.

  ‘Most certainly.’ Victor settled into his chair. ‘A small recital; and then I must take our little Natalia home to her mama.’

  Andrei stood. ‘I’ll take her.’

  ‘No, no. Stay, Andrei.’ Victor waved a hand. ‘I’ll walk her home in a little while. It isn’t far.’

  ‘I – rather feel the need of a breath of fresh air.’ Andrei studiously avoided catching Anna’s surprised eye. ‘And it’s a little late, you know. If Natalia will have me then I’ll escort her.’

  Dmitri, with unusual energy, bounced from his chair. ‘May I come? I feel like a walk.’

  ‘Oh, no, dear – I don’t think –’

  ‘Mama, please! I’ve been sitting here for hours watching Margarita’s –’ Dmitri hesitated, thought twice about the word ‘silly’ ‘– nice play. My legs are quite cramped. ’Talia doesn’t live far. She won’t mind if I come. Will you?’

  Thus directly addressed, the girl blushed furiously, ducked her mousy head and then shook it.

  Anna, amused at the telltale affectionate diminutive – Dmitri, harassed by three sisters, was not usually known for his attentions to or interest in the opposite sex – tried unsuccessfully to catch her uncle’s eye, to share the affectionate laughter. He, however, did not glance her way. ‘Let him come, Varya. A walk will do him good. Please, relax and enjoy your evening. I’ll see you tomorrow at the shop, Victor.’

  ‘You won’t come back for a small glass of something?’ Victor was surprised. ‘I thought you said –’

  ‘No.’ The word was abrupt. ‘I won’t come back. I’ll send Dima up as soon as we get back. Seraphima, could you get the children’s coats and hats, please? Dima, if you’re coming with us you’d better put another jumper on. It’s still quite cold out –’

  Dmitri ran with alacrity from the room. Natalia’s eyes followed him shyly. Margarita snorted. ‘What’s got into our Dima? He’s usually as idle as a bear in winter!’

  Minutes later, muffled against the cold, the three of them left the apartment. The door shut firmly behind them. The stairs were dimly lit and cold. ‘Come on, ’Talia.’ Dmitri caught the girl’s hand and they started down the stairs. ‘I’d better help you. It’s a bit dark.’

  Andrei stood for a moment, watching them, collar turned up around his ears, hands deep in his pockets. He had not bothered to wear a hat to come up to the apartment. He ought to stop in at his rooms downstairs to pick one up.

  He tried not to think of the untroubled light in Anna’s eyes as she had kissed him, lightly, on each cheek in unthinking and formal farewell.

  Dmitri’s voice came to him from below. ‘Mind this bottom step – it’s a bit uneven,’ and then, as they reached the heavy door and the boy struggled to open it, ‘Sunday is Palm Sunday, isn’t it? I’m sure Uncle Andrei will know where we can find some pussy willow. If I ask him, would you like to come to collect some with me?’

  Slowly Andrei started down the stairs. From the apartment above came the sound of Anna’s violin, pursuing him, gently and faultlessly beautiful. He hunched his shoulders; against the cold, and against that soft, haunting sound.

  Face set, he followed the children, bareheaded, out into the bleak night.

  * * *

  The week leading up to Easter was, as always, the busiest of the year. All of the food for the Easter Table – the feast to be eaten by family, servants and friends on Easter Sunday and Monday to break the Lenten fast – must be prepared almost wholly in advance, for on those two days no-one must be made to work. Almost everyone was dragooned – mostly by Anna – into helping with the preparations for the great festival. The Easter ham had been brought with them, months ago, from Moscow and had been hanging in the cold larder beside the strings of dried mushrooms and herbs that had also travelled with them from the Moscow kitchen. Chickens and joints of veal were bought from the market, cheesecakes and cakes were prepared; the whole family held the strongest conviction that Nanny Irisha’s ‘koulich’, an iced fruit cake upon which, with great care and ceremony, the first letters of the words ‘Christ is Risen’ had been beautifully enscribed, was the best to be found in St Petersburg. The traditional ‘pashka’, a sweet, soft cheese, was prepared, under the eagle eye of the new cook, who, Anna noticed, did not herself do much of the hard work of mixing. Salmon too was cooked and cooled, and caviar bought from a shop on the Nevsky, together with more vodka than was usually seen in the Shalakov household, and several bottles of a liqueur known as ‘ribinovka’, flavoured with rowan berries, of which Varya was particularly fond. Dmitri, professing a masculine disinterest in the affairs of the kitchen, spent most of his time painstakingly dyeing, colouring and decorating eggs. Throughout the week, the whole household went at one time or another separately to church for their confession. And all before they left went to the other members of the household to ask and accept forgiveness for any wayward sin that might have caused hurt during the past year.

  Anna, reciting the formula to Lenka and receiving equally automatic pardon, resolved with a little unease and in good faith once more to speak to her father about the University just as soon as the opportunity arose.

  Victor, of course, took little part in these domestic arrangements. The initial success of the shop on the Nevsky had gratifyingly continued, though first interest, inevitably, fell off a little. The contract with the Imperial theatres and schools was all but signed and sealed; with that solidly behind him he knew that the future could be considered assured, and in a much shorter space of time than he had ever dared to dream. In St Petersburg where the Tsar or his representatives led the whole world gladly followed.

  ‘So, Pavel Petrovich –’ he poured another glass of vodka for Donovalov, left the bottle within easy reach of the other man’s hand ‘– we are agreed, I think? Shall we drink a toast?’

  Donovalov picked up the small glass, tu
rned it in his hand. He sat at his ease in the chair opposite the desk in Victor’s office. His dark and narrow face was impassive. ‘I – see no reason why not.’

  His tone stopped Victor in his tracks. The glass half-raised, he stilled. ‘There is a doubt?’ There couldn’t be. He had given everything – everything! – the damned man had asked.

  Donovalov smiled, lifted his glass a little. ‘No. Of course not.’ He made a slight movement towards Victor’s glass. Victor, relieved, clicked his against it and tossed the drink back. Donovalov did not move.

  There was a small, tense silence. ‘What?’ Victor asked, quietly, aware that for all his efforts something like despair edged his voice. ‘You want more?’

  The dark, level glance held his. Then, ‘No,’ the man said. ‘No, of course not, Victor Valerievich. Of course not,’ and with a single movement he lifted the glass and emptied it.

  Victor sat down, rather too suddenly for dignity. It was done, then. The contract was his. The gamble had paid off. He had spent a great deal of money on the shop on the Nevsky, more than his original careful planning had foreseen; his dealings with Pavel Petrovich had cost him dearly too. But the prospect of the Imperial contract and the advantages it offered, dangled so temptingly, had overcome his habitual prudence. ‘The agreement,’ he said, indicating the impressive-looking document that lay upon his desk. ‘Shall we sign it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Donovalov reached for the bottle, refilled his glass to the brim. ‘Of course. And then –’ he lifted his head, letting a small silence draw out between them ‘– there is perhaps another little matter that I would like to discuss.’

  ‘Oh?’

  The other man reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette case, extracted a cigarette and lit it, unhurriedly. ‘Your daughter Yelena,’ he said. ‘She interests me.’