Winter Palace
Page 8
“But still you did it.”
“What, walk the lonely mile? Too right I did. Knew the old dear wouldn’t even leave a greasy stain if I did a bonk.”
“A what?”
“Bonk, lad. Bonk. Head for the hills in Yankish. Do a number. Catch a jet plane. Ride off into the sunset. Take a—”
“I get the picture.”
Andrew inspected him in the car mirror. “You’re not going to make me pull the manacles from the boot, now, are you?”
“You don’t have to say that with such glee,” Jeffrey replied.
Andrew laughed and changed the subject. “Been down working on the Costa Geriatrica, I have.”
“Where’s that?”
“Oh, it’s what we call the region from Brighton to Hastings. Bit like your Miami Beach, I suppose. Minus the sun, of course.”
“And the crime.”
“Well, there you are. That’s the price you pay for not enough rain in Florida. Raises a body’s temperature, bound to. Turns thoughts to pillage and plunder and other such diversions.”
“So what were you doing down in Brighton? Hunting down some new pieces?”
“Too right. Old dear had a houseful, too, she did. Problem was, she’d never taken much notice of their condition, said articles having been in her family since sheriffs were still lopping off heads instead of giving out parking tickets. No, if the worms stopped holding hands, her whole house’d dissolve into sawdust.” Andrew permitted himself a satisfied smile. “So to keep the trip from being a total loss, I bought myself a boat.”
“You what?”
He nodded. “Almost new. This Frenchie sailed it over, discovered on his maiden voyage that he hated the sight of more water than could fit in his tub. He named the ship Bien Perdu. Closest I could come to a translation was ‘Good and Lost.’ Thought I’d keep it, seeing as how that’s exactly what I’ll be ten minutes after untying from the dock.”
Jeffrey tasted a smile, only to have it dissolve into a new flood of doubt. “Would you do it again? Get married, I mean.”
Andrew nodded emphatically. “Long as there’s love, lad, even the roughest days are as good as it gets.”
Jeffrey felt a settling of his internal seas. “That’s reassuring, Andrew. Thanks.”
“Think nothing of it.” He took a corner wide, gave a regal wave to a group of tourists who craned to search the car’s interior for someone wearing a crown. “How’s Alexander doing?”
“The doctors seem to be more confident every time I see them,” Jeffrey replied. “Of course, they hedge their bets worse than bookies at the track. Getting a straight answer out of them is like trying to squeeze blood from a stone.”
“Yes, well, that’s why they call it a medical practice, isn’t it. They’re all still studying, trying to get it right.” Andrew pulled up to the main hospital entrance and stopped. He turned around and observed with evident pleasure, “I’ve just enough time to pop around for the bride-to-be and make it back on the hour. If there’s even the bittiest chance of your buying passage to Paraguay in the next ten minutes or so, I’ll gladly chain you to the nearest tree.”
“You’re a big help,” Jeffrey said, climbing out.
“No, suppose not.” Andrew put the car into gear, said through the open window, “Think of it this way, lad. If the old ticker gives way before you make it up the aisle, there’s ever so many doctors in there who’d love to practice on you.”
Jeffrey’s entry into the hospital lobby—dressed as he was in tuxedo, starched shirt with studs, and silk bow tie—caused a suitable stir. Families clustered around patients in robes and pajamas ceased their conversation as though silenced by a descending curtain. Nurses and hospital staff shared smiles and hellos; clearly the news had made the rounds, and the event met with their approval. A few went so far as to offer the thoroughly embarrassed Jeffrey their congratulations and best wishes.
The closer he came to the chapel, the more his fear turned to a barrier against the world. He walked down the long Casualties hall, exchanging numb hellos and handshakes with smiling staff. He forced his legs to carry him down the main stairs and on past signs for Oncology, Radiation Therapy, Obstetrics. He turned a corner and walked by a door labeled Dispensing Chemist, briefly entertaining thoughts of stopping by for a mild sedative, something he could take by the gallon. Next was the Cardiac section—another two beats a minute faster and they’d have their first walk-in patient. A final corner and he had arrived.
Alexander was there by the chapel’s closed door, seated in a wheelchair but dressed to the nines, as befitting a best man, heart attack or no. Count Garibaldi, who had agreed to push the best man’s chair, was there beside him. In his severe formal wear, the count looked like a black velvet stork, with beak to match. Jeffrey exchanged greetings, shook hands, saw little, felt nothing.
Then a voice behind him said, “Here she is, lad. All safe and sound and pretty as a picture.”
He turned, and knew an immediate sense of utter clarity. Of complete and total rightness.
Katya bathed them all in her joy. Jeffrey most of all.
Her dress was Victorian in feel, modest and alluring at the same time. The color was called candlelight, the shade of the lightest champagne rose. The fabric was antique satin and lace that her mother had found in a local Coventry market. Together they had oohed and aahed and giggled like schoolgirls as the dress had taken shape, denying Jeffrey the first glance. Until now.
He knew the terms to describe it because he had heard her speak of it in endless detail. It had what was called a princess line, fitting snugly from shoulders to hips, then belling out to a flounced skirt that ended just above her ankles. Her sleeves were tight from wrist to elbow, buttoned with tiny seed pearls, then loose and airy to where they gathered at her shoulders. Her neckline descended far enough to allow an elegant emerald necklace, a sentimental gift from Jeffrey’s grandmother, to rest upon her silken skin. She held a bouquet of white roses and Peruvian lilies.
For Jeffrey, the moment was suspended in the timelessness of true love. The others cooed over her dress, her flowers, her hair. Hospital staff gathered in the hall behind them and freely bestowed smiles on all and sundry. The hubbub touched Jeffrey not at all. He stood and drank in the loveliness of her and knew that here was a moment he would carry in his heart and mind for all his days.
Alexander cleared his throat. “Although I lack personal experience in these matters, I believe it is necessary for the groom to parade down front before our festivities may proceed.”
“The gent means you, lad,” Andrew said, beaming from ear to ear.
Jeffrey shared a smile and a murmured affection with his bride-to-be, then turned and pushed through the chapel doors.
And stopped again.
The room was filled with flowers.
The two floral arrangements Katya had ordered stood on the front altar. The remainder of the room, however, was decked out in vast arrays of cascading roses, lilies, and gladioli.
“A small token of thanks,” Alexander murmured from beside him, “for allowing me to be a part of this day.”
From the back corner, a trio of ancient-looking gentlemen struck up a stringed-instrument rendition of Chopin’s “Polonaise.”
Jeffrey looked down at his friend. “Aren’t they the musicians from Claridge’s?”
Alexander nodded. “They were the only ones I could locate and hire without undue fuss. Now on you go.”
Jeffrey made do with a gentle squeeze of the old gentleman’s shoulder. He walked to the altar and waited while the trio paused and began the Wedding March.
Then Katya descended.
That was how he would always remember it, how he felt as he stood and watched the moment unfold. Katya descended to join with him in earthbound form, bestowing upon him a higher love.
Throughout the ceremony, Jeffrey remained showered with the light and the love and the wholehearted joy that shone from Katya’s eyes.
****
His eyes moved from one group to the next. He watched his father convulse with laughter over something the count said. He saw Sydney Greenfield chatter through a story, drinking and eating all the while. He knew a momentary pang at the wish that Alexander had been well enough to join them. But his own sense of well-being was too strong just then to grant much room to sorrow.
What had surprised him most during the run-up to their wedding was how well his mother and Katya’s had hit it off. Their first contact had been one of genteel inspection, the first few days very formal. By the time of the wedding, however, they were sisters in all but flesh. His mother helped Magda to her seat, brought people over to meet her, sat and chatted with animation. With laughter. And Magda replied with a smile. Jeffrey watched to see if it would split her face.
Always his gaze returned to Katya. She flowed from group to group, and wherever she stood, the room’s light shifted to remain focused upon her. She approached someone, and smiles bloomed like flowers opening to the sun. Men stood taller, women leaned forward to speak, all were richly rewarded with a moment of sharing in her happiness.
“This isn’t your day to play wallflower, lad,” Andrew said as he approached.
“Just taking a breather,” Jeffrey replied, his eyes resting upon Katya. “And enjoying the view.”
“I’ve never had much respect for a man who’s not able to outmarry himself,” Andrew said. “Glad to see you’re upholding my estimation of you, lad.”
Jeffrey watched as Katya spoke and laughed and positively shimmered. “I’m a lucky guy.”
“You’re a ruddy sight more than that. You’ve the good fortune of twenty men, lad. Congratulations.”
Jeffrey caught sight of himself in an ancient mercury mirror. Smugness fought for place with wonder across his features. “I can’t thank you enough for the car—”
“Don’t give it another thought.” Andrew paused, said, “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a news of my own. Care for a glass of something wet?”
“No thanks. What news?”
“My wife and I’ve decided to adopt a little one,” Andrew said, then, when Jeffrey laughed, “What’s so funny?”
“You and your British calm. You’d announce the start of World War III without raising your voice.”
“Having a wee one dribble on your best suit is a trial, I’ll admit, but not quite as bad as that.” Andrew grinned. “Life was bent on sparing us the bother, but my wife and I were never ones to rest on good sense when we were wanting something. Especially when it comes to kids.”
Jeffrey offered his hand. “Congratulations, Andrew. I’m sure you’re going to be a great dad.”
“Wish I shared your confidence, lad. The thought is enough to give me a bad case of the shakes, I’ll admit.” His grip on Jeffrey’s hand lingered. “I’d thought of asking you to be his godfather.”
“Me?”
“Don’t look so shocked. You’ve got all the right ingredients for a godparent, far as I can see. And in years to come, you’ll be able to give the little blighter the kind of gifts he deserves, like a matching suite of Louis XIV furniture.” Andrew sobered momentarily. “Seriously, lad. I’d be ever so glad if you’d accept.”
“I’m honored, Andrew. Really.”
“That’s settled, then.” Andrew dropped his hand. “You’d be amazed the things you and the little wife will get involved with when your own time comes. Never knew wallpaper coloring was a national priority.” He motioned to where Magda waved at him. “You’re being summoned, lad. Time to rejoin the fray.”
Magda patted the chair next to her as he approached and said, “Allow me the honor of sitting next to the most handsome man in the room for a moment.”
“I am only a complement for your daughter’s beauty,” Jeffrey replied, sitting down.
“For this moment, perhaps.” Magda searched out her daughter, responded to her wave with yet another smile. “Yes, it is indeed her day.”
“You have raised a beautiful daughter,” Jeffrey told her.
Magda turned her attention back to him. “And granted her the good sense to choose an excellent man.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Nichols.”
“I was so pleased that my daughter was not artistically inclined.” She sipped from her glass. “I did not wish the Lord to burden her with this passion.”
Jeffrey found her across the crowded room. “She has your passion,” he replied. “It comes out in other ways.”
“I am glad.” Magda inspected his face, asked, “You are worried by this trip to the Ukraine?”
He nodded, no longer surprised by her changes in direction or choices of topic. “Does it show so clearly?”
“No, but I know my daughter. She will have bestowed her own worries upon you. Her life and her heritage has been shaped by one view of the Soviet empire. She sees them as the oppressors. The Bolsheviks. The conquerors. The instruments of Stalin’s terror.” She waved the past aside. “But this nation no longer exists. Who knows what you shall find?”
“I think this uncertainty is almost as frightening as what you described.”
“This too is true.” Magda smiled. “Perhaps you are right to be worried after all.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“When do you depart?”
“Tonight we have a suite here at the Grosvenor House, then tomorrow we leave for five days in Monte Carlo. I travel to Cracow two days later.”
“Know that you shall travel with the prayers of at least two women sheltering you.”
“Thank you, Magda. That means a lot.”
“So, enough of the future. Today we must retain the moment’s joy, no?” Magda reached beside her chair and came up with a picture frame wrapped in white tissue paper. “I have made something for you.”
“That’s wonderful, Magda.” He made to rise. “Wait, let me go get Katya.”
“My daughter has already seen this,” she replied. “She was the one who suggested the quotation.”
Jeffrey accepted the package, folded back the paper, and released a long, slow breath.
The frame was simple and wooden. The matting was of dark-blue velvet. Set upon this cloth was a flat, hand-painted ceramic rectangle.
The picture’s background was softest ivory. Upon it was painted a man cresting the peak of an impossibly high mountain. With one hand he clutched for support; the other he stretched heavenward. Above him a lamb, shining as the sun, reached down, offering a pair of wings.
Beneath were scrolled the words, “‘Let us press on to know God,’ Hosea 6:4.”
Jeffrey’s mother stepped over to where they sat. “May I borrow my son for a moment?”
“Of course.”
“Did you paint that, Magda? Oh, it’s beautiful. May I show it to my husband?” She lifted the picture from Jeffrey’s grasp and moved off.
Jeffrey stammered, “Magda, I don’t know how to thank you.”
She smiled once more. “You shall make a worthy son-in-law, Jeffrey. Of that I have not the slightest doubt.”
“Jeffrey?” His mother reappeared. “I do need to speak to you for a moment.”
“Go,” Magda said quietly. “My blessings upon you both, and upon this wondrous day.”
His mother pulled him over to another quiet corner. “Katya is as wonderful as you said.”
“You spent a week together and you’re just getting around to deciding this?”
She gave him a playful hug. “I’ve told you that before and you know it.”
He pulled a face. “I don’t recall.”
“You don’t recall,” she mimicked, rolling the tones. “Listen to my posh son.”
Jeffrey was so completely happy he felt he could have skated a Fred Astaire dance step across the ceiling. “You know where that word comes from? In the days of colonial India, people with connections and experience chose the cooler side of the boat
for their voyages out and back—port out, starboard home. Posh. Very snooty group, from the sounds of it.”
She looked at him with genuine approval. “You’re very happy with your life, aren’t you.” It was not a question.
He nodded. “Other than the odd crisis now and then, very happy.”
“These bad things come,” she said, her smile never slipping. “If you are strong, and if you’re lucky enough to marry a good partner, and if you’re wise enough to know a strong faith, the bad things go too.”
“They do at that,” he agreed.
“Well, I didn’t pull you away to discuss the lost colonies of the British Empire.”
He played at surprise. “No?”
“Your brother asked me to wait until your wedding day to pass on this momentous news. Don’t ask me why. I have long since given up trying to figure out how my sons’ minds work.” She took a breath, then said, “Your little brother is thinking of becoming a monk.”
That dropped his jaw. “Charles?”
“Unless you have yet another brother stashed somewhere which I don’t know about, that must be the one.”
“Charles a monk?”
“Better than Charles a drunk. His words, not mine. He is very sorry to miss the festivities, by the way. Genuinely sorry. But travel is such a tremendous difficulty for him. We discussed it and decided this was better for all concerned.”
But Jeffrey wasn’t ready to let that one go. “Charles is going to be a monk?”
“Not only has he convinced me and your father, but the abbot is taking this most seriously as well.”
“Abbot?”
“The monastery head. Call him chief holy honcho if it makes it any easier to swallow. Your father does. He’s quite a nice man, actually.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“A fairly standard reaction. Charles says to tell you that he has finally recognized himself as a man of extremes. A born fanatic. Either he lands in the gutter, or he takes his religion thing all the way.”
“That’s what he calls it? His religion thing?”
She smiled, a touch of sadness to her eyes. “My dear son Charles is going to, as he puts it, spend the rest of his life doing a major prayer gig.”