Victor reached for the bottle.
The contract lay, unsigned, between them.
Donovalov smiled, not unpleasantly.
‘She’s – very young,’ Victor said. The man’s reputation was barbarous.
‘But my dear Victor, of course she is. That’s one of her charms.’ The man leaned forward and pulled the contract and the pen and inkwell towards him. He picked up the pen, toyed with it, put it down.
‘I’m not sure that –’ Victor stopped.
Donovalov’s face hardened a very little. He was tired of street girls. Tired of living alone. Since stupid Olga’s unfortunate death there had been something missing from his life; lately he had become aware of that. The initial thrill of freedom had long worn off. The small, vicious adventures of the streets, bought and paid for, had quickly palled. He had become sated. Yelena’s instant, instinctive terror of him had awakened an excitement he had thought lost to him, had sharpened his jaded senses delightfully. Just the thought of her young, lush, heavy body even now brought a slight moisture to the palms of his hands, a stirring of his body. And she was his for the taking. For nothing. The look on Victor’s face told him so. He leaned back, drew on his cigarette, waiting.
* * *
Anna loved Easter. She was not in any true sense religious but, encouraged by her grandfather, who had taken her from babyhood to the magnificent cathedrals of Moscow’s Kremlin, she had for as long as she could remember been fascinated by the rich and ancient rituals of the Orthodox Church. She loved too the settings – those dark cathedrals, extravagantly gilded and bejewelled, their shadowed spaces lit by the candles of generations of the faithful and scented by the incense of centuries of worship. The opulence of vestment and altar, the glimmer of gold, the grave-faced icons bedecked with a king’s ransom of precious metal and stone, induced in her a feeling of awed wonder; not it must be admitted simply at the glory of the sacrificed God to whom they were dedicated, but at the human and artistic achievement that these vast and lavishly decorated fantasies of faith represented. And then, of course, there was the music. Whilst Lenka and the others had fidgeted from foot to foot, or traipsed to the benches at the back where the very young and the very old were allowed to rest, even as a child she would stand like a statue through the longest liturgy, enthralled by the haunting beauty of the voices that lifted, like the voices of angels, to the vaulted, domed and ornamented ceilings in the solemn and intricate chants and harmonies of the Church.
On Thursday of Holy Week she went to the evening service of the Passions of Our Lord with her mother, father and a grumbling Margarita who looked the very picture of an angel with her lighted candle shining upon her fair and pretty face. Lenka and Dmitri had both come down with what Anna suspected were very convenient chills.
Spring, at last and quite suddenly, had arrived. The combination of an early Easter and a late cold snap had disguised it until now, but the ice was all but gone from the river, the wind had lost its cutting winter’s edge, and the smell of hyacinths was in the air.
‘Papa, we may go to see the procession at St Isaac’s with Uncle Andrei, mayn’t we?’ Anna had seen little of her uncle since the night of Margarita’s play, but his invitation was firmly lodged in her mind, and she did not entirely trust her mother to pursue it. She was well aware that Varya’s idea of civilized amusement probably did not include watching a religious procession in St Isaac’s Square in the middle of a still-chilly night.
‘What? Oh – yes, I suppose so.’ Victor’s voice was abstracted. The service, unexpectedly, had awakened his conscience, and it was a more uncomfortable experience than he cared to admit. ‘Yes. Of course.’
Anna tucked Margarita’s hand more firmly into the crook of her arm, smiling.
Margarita wrinkled her small nose ferociously. She glanced back at her parents, lowered her voice to a fierce hiss. ‘Anna! I don’t have to go, do I?’
Anna shook her head. ‘Of course not. No-one has to, if they don’t want to.’
They walked a few steps, Margarita trying to adjust her step to her taller sister’s strides. Suddenly, unexpectedly and infectiously, she giggled. ‘Anna?’
‘Mm?’
‘Do you want to know a secret?’
Anna sent her a small, suspiciously quizzical look. ‘Whose secret?’ She knew better than to believe that her younger sister would give away a secret of her own.
‘Dima’s.’ Margarita’s brilliant blue eyes gleamed with mischief.
‘If it’s Dima’s secret you shouldn’t tell me.’ But Anna could not resist laughter.
‘He’s in love with Natalia!’ Margarita let out a small squeal of laughter, quickly subdued. ‘Natalia! That little mouse! Can you believe it?’
‘Oh, Rita, come! You shouldn’t –’
‘It’s true! I promise! I’ve seen them.’
Anna’s eyes widened. ‘Seen them?’
Rita tossed her head, irritated. ‘You know – seen the way they look at each other.’
‘Ritashka!’ In appalled amusement Anna resorted to the teasing baby name that she knew her sister heartily disliked. ‘What ever can you mean? They’re children!’
Margarita’s chin came up. ‘Natalia,’ she said, with a certain ominous dignity, ’is the same age as I am.’
‘Oh, Margarita!’ Anna gave in at last to open laughter. ‘No-one is the same age as you are!’
Her sister smiled, pleased. ‘You just wait and see,’ she said. ‘You just wait and see.’ They walked on for a few moments in silence. Then Margarita spoke again, an edge of petulance to her voice. ‘You’d think that Uncle Mischa and Aunt Zhenia would have invited us for the whole of the Easter feast, wouldn’t you? I mean, they have that lovely house, and plenty of room.’
Anna, having seen at first hand the grandiose preparations that were going on in the house on the Fontanka, was only too pleased not to be too closely included in the Bourlovs’ Easter celebrations. ‘We’re going on Monday. Be satisfied with that.’
‘I shan’t be satisfied with anything.’ Margarita’s young voice held a note of adult and steely determination that might to a more experienced ear have been disturbing. ‘One day, you’ll see, I shall have my own Easter celebrations. The best in St Petersburg. And I shall be the one to decide whether Cousin Katya and her friends come on Monday –’ she skipped a little, to keep up with her sister ‘– or on Tuesday!’
* * *
Saturday was a day of frantic activity. There was last-minute shopping to be done, the final touches to be put to the Easter food, the apartment to be rearranged to accommodate family and guests. By many standards the Shalakov celebrations were very modest indeed; there was only the immediate family, Andrei, and from the workshop Pyotr Pyotrovich who, widowed, lived alone and Andrei’s young protege Vladimir, whose family were in Archangel, too far to travel for the festival. Late in the evening the Easter Table was laid, with the best china, cutlery and glass, the centrepiece a pyramid of Dmitri’s eggs: sapphire and vermilion, gold and emerald.
Anna stepped back, hands on hips. ‘There. That looks lovely. Now, come on everyone – Uncle Andrei said to be downstairs by a quarter past eleven.’
In the event almost everyone had elected to go to watch the procession; even Margarita had decided that she could not resist the opportunity to stay up so late. So everyone but old Nanny Irisha – who had declared that God would well understand that her old bones were better off by the kitchen stove than galivanting about St Petersburg on a chilly spring evening – and the cook Sonya, who, duty done, was spending the next few days with her own family in the Vyborg district, trooped down the stairs to collect Andrei before stepping out into the street and making their way to the great cathedral in St Isaac’s Square. Others were heading in the same direction, in couples and in groups. The streets of the city held a muted excitement. Anna slipped through the group until she was walking next to Andrei. She linked her arm with his. ‘Thank you for having such a lovely idea.’
He
smiled faintly, but did not reply.
‘It will be very beautiful, I should think?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve been before, I suppose, often?’
He nodded.
‘Did you – did you used to come with your wife?’
There was a moment’s pause. ‘Yes. Yes, I did. Excuse me a moment, Anna. Victor – a word with you – ?’ With a firmness that was all but brusque he disentangled his arm and lengthened his stride to where Victor and Varya walked in the front.
The small incident was over in seconds. Anna tucked her hand back into her muff. The rebuff had been unmistakable. All the small suspicions that she had been trying to dismiss over the past busy days crystallized, suddenly, into bitter conviction. He was avoiding her. She had not imagined the constraint that had fallen between them, the faint coldness in his manner on the few occasions they had spoken. But – what had she done? Why had he changed so? They had been such good friends – what in heaven’s name had happened to change that? She swallowed, but the lump that had suddenly grown in her throat refused to budge. She clenched her jaw.
‘Just look at all the people – the whole of Petersburg must be here!’ Margarita was fairly dancing with excitement, but her voice was hushed.
Literally thousands of people were massed in the square, still and quiet, most heads bowed in prayer. Each held a lighted candle, making the huge square a sea of glimmering light, and in the centre of the silent congregation stood the great cathedral, lit and decked for this joyous festival. From within came the sound of music.
Anna’s happy excitement had evaporated. Exaggerated by hurt every small, and until now disregarded, incident of the past days was moving in angry procession through her mind. She took the candle Seraphima handed her, folded it in her hands, bowed her head, her eyes riveted, unseeing, upon the flame. Why? Why was he behaving so? She was not imagining it; his attitude to her had changed utterly. What had happened to those happy times of laughter and music? What, oh what, had she done?
The candle flame blurred suddenly. Terrified someone might notice her tears, she turned her head, blinking. And found herself looking straight into the eyes of her uncle, standing a little behind her, his gaze, over the candle he held, steadily upon her, and in his eyes, usually so mild and so merry, a look of such clear anguish that it all but stopped her heart. In that moment, lit by candlelight, it seemed to her that the image of his face would be branded upon her memory for ever. Bareheaded he stood, the shock of silvered hair catching the moving light, the planes and angles of his sensitive face shadowed. So sudden had been her movement that he had had no time to turn away, no chance to hide that unguarded look of hunger, which even in her inexperience the woman in her could not help but recognize. Eyes locked, they stood like statues, unsteady candlelight flickering between them.
The midnight chimes sounded. Heads lifted. A murmur ran around the vast square. The heavy cathedral doors opened and the glittering head of the Easter procession appeared at the top of the steps above the crowd.
In a dream, Anna turned to watch. In all its stately and ceremonial splendour the great procession moved down the steps into the square, voices lifted in magnificent song. ‘Khristos Voskryese! – Christ is Risen!’ Choir and clergy carried high the breathtakingly beautiful jewel-encrusted icons for which the cathedral of St Isaac’s was famous, which glittered and gleamed in the light of the massed candles, each one of them a gift of thanks from someone recovered by the grace of God from serious illness. Jewelled and embroidered vestments shimmered, aglow with colour, as their wearers moved with measured tread around the cathedral, the Easter Anthem swelling again – ‘Khristos Voskryese!’ Incense lifted into the still air.
Tears were running quite openly down Anna’s face; though whether their cause lay in the overawing and emotional scene before her or in the intolerable confusion of her own feelings she could not herself have said. She saw the gleam of tears on other faces, brightness in other eyes. It was hard to resist such splendour and such fervour.
‘Khristos Voskryese!’
And ‘Voistinu Voskryese! – He is risen indeed!’ responded the crowd, joyfully. The procession had returned to the steps, was moving slowly back into the great building. The bells of St Isaac’s and of all the other churches and cathedrals across the city had begun to ring, peal upon peal, a carillon of rejoicing. Easter greetings were being exchanged, as stranger saluted stranger in the brotherhood of the Resurrection.
‘Christ is Risen!’
‘He is risen indeed!’
Kisses were exchanged. Anna dashed her hand across her eyes, bent to kiss Margarita, proffered her cheek to her mother and then her father, turned at last to where Andrei had stood, watching her.
Her uncle had gone.
‘Where’s Andrei?’ Victor’s voice was surprised, a little testy.
Anna’s eyes searched the crowd, hunting for the unmistakable thatch of silver, but could catch not a glimpse of it.
‘Anna? Have you seen your uncle?’
‘He – he was here. A short while ago.’
Varya shrugged. ‘He must have got lost in the crowd. Never mind. We’d better be off. Andrei is perfectly capable of finding his own way home. Time the children were in bed. Goodness, those bells are enough to give one a migraine! Seraphima, take Dima’s other arm please, we mustn’t get separated. Anna! For goodness’ sake, what are you dreaming about? Do come along – we have a busy day ahead tomorrow –’
Anna took one last long, urgent look across the heads of the milling crowds, but there was no sign of Andrei.
‘Come on, Anna.’ Sleepily Margarita took her hand. ‘Mama’s waiting.’
Obediently Anna turned, her arm about her younger sister, and followed the others out of the square.
Behind them the bells pealed, joyfully, as if for the wedding of princely lovers.
Chapter Five
Anna was not entirely surprised when Andrei did not turn up at the Shalakov apartment on the following day at the agreed time; nor, in her confused state of mind, could she honestly decide in her heart between relief and bitter disappointment at his absence. After an all but sleepless night, in the dark hours of which her emotions had seesawed alarmingly between an overwhelming and indisputably reckless elation and something uncomfortably close to guilty terror, she was not unhappy to have a little more time to collect her thoughts and feelings before facing her uncle again.
‘He’ll be here, Mama, don’t fuss. There –’ Her heart all but jumped from her breast at the sound of the doorbell. She was astounded that her voice remained perfectly calm. ‘– that’s probably him now.’
But it was not. It was Pyotr and Vladimir, each carrying an Easter gift of eggs – Pyotr’s a small but very pretty porcelain one for his hostess and chocolate eggs for the children, and Vladimir’s made of papier mâché and decorated with pressed flowers, the largest and most elaborate of these pretty novelties presented shyly to a surprised Anna; a gift that caused Margarita to open wide, interested eyes full of graceless speculation. The formal Easter greetings were exchanged. Neither man had seen Andrei.
‘Voistinu Voskryese.’ Varya nodded, with an absent smile, to Vladimir’s greeting. Then, ‘It really is too bad of Andrei. He should have been here an hour ago.’ She was vexed. Andrei was, after all, the link between the family and their two guests; the atmosphere without him here to bridge these first few awkward moments was stiff with formality. ‘Anna, run downstairs and see what’s keeping him, would you?’
Anna froze. ‘I – I – was just going to the kitchen to help Seraphima –’
‘I don’t see why Seraphima needs any help – everything’s done.’ Victor was handing round small glasses of vodka. ‘Off you go, my dear. Run down and tell your uncle that we’re waiting.’
It was of course the most natural request in the world; still she hesitated, biting her lip. Yelena’s glance was enquiring, her mother’s impatient.
Anna, with no possible excu
se to offer, snatched her shawl from the back of a chair and went.
The door to Andrei’s work room was unlocked. She pushed it open. The work room was empty, and unusually chill. The stove had gone out. Almost certainly that must mean that Andrei had not come home at all last night; Anna had never known him let the stove go out in this room – except on the warmest of summer days he kept it going, she knew, to keep the even temperature and dry atmosphere necessary for his craft. The door to his living room stood ajar. Literally weak-kneed with relief, she had turned to leave when a stirring of movement arrested her. Glass clinked upon glass.
Very, very slowly she turned back, moved quietly to the half-open door.
Andrei sat in an armchair beside another cold stove. On the floor beside him was a bottle, almost empty. In his hand, lax upon the arm of the chair, was a glass, filled to the brim.
Anna pushed the door, and let it swing inwards, creaking, until it stood wide open. There was a moment’s silence in which neither of them moved. Then he lifted his eyes to hers for the briefest of seconds before, with no word, tossing the drink back in a single swallow, and reaching for the bottle again. There was another bottle, Anna saw, completely empty, lying on the floor by his foot.
She watched him as with surprisingly steady movements he poured more vodka into the glass. His hair was tousled, his shirt and breeches a little crumpled, but beyond that he showed small evidence of having been drinking all night; which she could not help but assume was what he had been doing. The room was very cold.
She could not think of a single thing to say.
He was watching her with apparent unsurprise and unnerving intentness.
‘Mama –’ she began, and had to cough to ease her dry throat. ‘Mama sent me down – to remind you –’ the words tailed off.
‘Ah. Yes.’ Carefully he tipped the last of the contents of the glass down his throat, stood the glass precisely upon the floor beside the bottle. ‘The Easter Table. Pardon me. I had forgotten the time.’ He stood up. In silence she watched him as he reached for a cravat that hung over the back of the chair, walked to the mirror that hung on the wall and with steady fingers expertly tied it. His velvet jacket hung behind the door. Anna stepped to one side, still watching him, as he took it and shrugged it onto his shoulders, ran his hands over his untidy hair, slicking it down. For the space of several breaths they stood, unmoving in the cold, quiet room.
Strange Are the Ways Page 10
