The Jewel of St. Petersburg

by Kate Furnivall

  “Hello, Viktor, I’ve been thinking of you. Was the delivery of the grenades a success?” He sat down with no sign of discomfort, physical or mental, though he must have heard Arkin enter his room.

  Arkin smiled despite himself. “Yes, that’s why I’ve come. The crate is hidden in Sergeyev’s bathhouse at the moment, but it’s not safe there. His place is probably being watched. We have to move it quickly.”

  “The grenades themselves? In good condition?”

  In response Arkin reached into his burlap bag and extracted its contents: a short canister with a metal handle attached and a box of ammunition. He passed them across to the priest, who inspected them carefully.

  “German military equipment is always the best,” he commented.

  The crate had been smuggled across borders, adding to the stockpile of arms. When the moment came they would be ready. The armaments were spread around St. Petersburg and moved regularly, some buried in pits deep within the city, which meant if one cache was discovered, the rest were still safe. Precautions were always necessary, infiltrators a constant danger. Arkin constantly had to fight his irritation at the slow pace of the glorious revolution.

  Unexpectedly Arkin thought of Valentina Ivanova in the car. Get us out of here, that was what she’d said. Imperious, yes, but it was the us that stuck in his mind. Not me, but us. It was Katya, the little cripple, she wanted to save, her loved one. He despised all that the Ivanov family stood for. Exploitative capitalists. But he couldn’t help a grudging respect for the older sister. He recognized in her the same single-minded determination that stirred and breathed in himself.

  “Trotsky has agreed to come and talk to us,” he informed the priest.

  “Otlichno! Excellent!”

  “So we will need the church hall.”

  “I’ll arrange it.”

  “I must leave now. The minister wants me to drive him to his mistress’s party this evening.” Outside, the fog had thickened.

  “Here.” The little child jumped off her stool and thrust at him a hefty slice of black bread covered in fried onions. “My name is Sofia.”

  “Spasibo,” he said, surprised, and took a bite. It tasted hot, full of spices and garlic. “Wonderful, thank you.”

  “What’s wrong with your ear?” she asked solemnly.

  The bottom of Arkin’s left earlobe had been shot off by the rifle bullet from the train and was covered in a thick black scab.

  “Nothing much. Just a scratch. What’s a little pain?” His gaze met the priest’s, and for that moment they understood each other better.

  “My father says pain is how we learn.”

  “Then the whole of Russia is going to learn, Sofia.”

  He finished off the bread and onions, swung up into the saddle, and cantered back into the swirling fog. Within seconds he had become invisible, one thought still pulsing in his mind. The whole of Russia is going to learn.

  Fifteen

  VALENTINA HURRIED THROUGH ALEXANDER SQUARE, shadows rolling across her face as a fitful wind herded the clouds across the sky.

  Nothing was ever easy.

  She’d traipsed around three other hospitals and the response was the same. You’re too wealthy. You’re too well educated. You’re not right. Yet she could roll bandages with her eyes closed and already knew all the bones in the body, as well as the pressure points and arterial system.

  You need to be tough. She took Jens’s visiting card from her pocket and looked again at the address. She would walk. She asked the way twice but even so, at one point she found she’d taken a wrong turn and wandered into a quiet side street with a white-faced church up ahead. A golden cross on its dome cast a long shadow on the road. A group of men huddled over a brazier at the far end as though waiting for something. As she was passing the church, a young man came out of it in a hurry and hoisted up two sacks from a handcart parked outside.

  “Arkin. What on earth are you doing here?”

  She might as well have stuck a knife in the chauffeur’s ribs. He jerked back and stumbled under the weight he was carrying, dropping one of the sacks. As it hit the ground, the side of it split and two potatoes rolled out.

  She stared at the sack. Arkin stared at her.

  “Why are you here?” he asked quickly.

  “I have taken a wrong turn.”

  “It seems to me you have no idea where you’re going.”

  He said it not with his chauffeur’s face. This one had hard lines and arrogant edges. His words froze in the icy air between them, and she wanted to push them back into his mouth. She crouched suddenly, picked up the two potatoes, and held them out to him.

  “Yours, I believe.”

  “Spasibo.”

  She waved a hand at the sacks. “What are you doing with these?”

  “I’m helping Father Morozov.”

  She glanced at the church. “Is he the priest here?”

  “Yes. He distributes food among the poor.”

  She could feel his eyes on her, curious. “I’m trying to find my way to the main road. Would I do better to retrace my steps?” she asked.

  “That’s up to you. You can go on, or you can go back to what is familiar.” It seemed that he wasn’t talking about the road. Still, he pointed over her shoulder. “The main road is back that way.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she started to leave, he lifted up the sacks, one under each arm, and strode back inside the church, unaware that he was leaving a trail of potatoes behind him. She watched him disappear, then picked up each potato and marched into the church. The air was colder, the entrance hall cramped. In front of her stood a set of ancient wooden doors leading into the body of the church, but to her left lay a short passageway that ended in stone stairs going down. A potato lay on the top step.

  She descended soundlessly. The stairs wound down into an underground room, dim and cavernous with a vaulted ceiling and the smell of damp stonework so strong it slapped her in the face. Men’s voices rose from rows of seats lined up in front of an unoccupied table. The men had their backs to her.

  “All they want to do is talk. Talk and more talk. I’m sick of it,” someone said.

  “I’m with you on that, Oleg. We’ve had enough of words. It’s time for more action.”

  “Stop complaining.” Arkin’s voice. “We all want to see more action. He’s coming to address us today and then we’ll be able to find out what plans he’s—” He stopped.

  He’d seen her. All eyes followed his gaze, and she heard the rumble of annoyance as they became aware of her presence.

  “You forgot the rest of your potatoes.” She held out her handful to him.

  The men’s eyes crawled over her. Scarves were pulled tighter, obscuring faces. She noted that the sacks had been dumped on the table, the split one spilling its lumpy contents like a gutted pig, but under the potatoes lay something that bore no resemblance to a vegetable, something angular swaddled in black cloth. Arkin was approaching her fast.

  “My dear girl, let me relieve you of those.”

  The voice came from behind her. She spun around and found a black figure standing over her on the bottom stair.

  “Thank you,” she muttered and thrust the potatoes at him.

  “This is Father Morozov.” Arkin had reached her side. “What on earth are you doing down here? I thought you’d left.”

  “Brother,” the priest said in a warm voice intended to smooth the edges off Arkin’s rudeness, “that is no way to welcome our visitor.” He inspected her face with thoughtful eyes and fingered his beard as if it were an aid to decision. He was clothed in a rough black cassock and a tall battered black hat, a brass crucifix pinned to his chest just below the straggling ends of his beard. “You are welcome to join us, whoever you are, my dear. We are gathered here to join in prayer for our country in these troubled days and to ask our dear Holy Father for guidance and wisdom.”

  No sound came from behind but she could sense them watching her. The priest’
s face was as lined as the skin of an old apple, but she didn’t think he was any older than her own father. She smiled at him. Her cheeks felt stiff.

  “Thank you, but I must leave now. I just wanted to bring you the potatoes that were dropped outside.”

  It sounded stupid even to her own ears. So when he stood aside, she scampered up the stairs quickly. The men from the brazier parted to let her through, and she walked at a brisk pace to the end of the road. Aware of their eyes on her, she wondered who was coming to address them today. And what plans he had.

  THE FRONT DOOR BANGED SHUT, ALERTING VALENTINA. A wave of chill air from outside ruffled the calm on the upstairs landing, and she ceased pacing. Instead she peered over the balustrade and inspected the floor below. Unaware of her above him, Jens was taking the stairs two at a time, the light from the gas lamp spiraling down onto his fiery hair. His hand flew up the banister rail, quick and purposeful. Did he always arrive home from work like this? So possessed by life?

  “Hello, Jens.”

  He stopped and darted a look upward. The moment he saw her, something shifted in his eyes. His mouth opened as if he were about to say something, but he didn’t. He bounded up the last stair and came forward until he was almost close enough for her to touch. His eyes scanned her face.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked quickly.

  “No. I just need to talk to you.”

  Still, that gaze on her face.

  “How did you get in here? Like a magic fairy you materialize outside my apartment door.”

  She laughed. Saw his eyes watch her mouth.

  “Your concierge let me in. I told him I was your cousin.”

  He smiled. “Did he believe you?”

  “I think so. He said I could wait up here on the landing in the warm instead of out on the sidewalk.”

  “Then the dolt is more stupid than I thought.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re far too beautiful to be any cousin of mine.”

  The words caught her off guard. He didn’t laugh when he said them, just tossed them out into the quiet dusty air and walked past her to unlock the door of his apartment. The building was an old one with ornate plaster moldings and a baroque extravagance of carvings and cornices, but it was tired now, its glory days behind it. Even the air tasted old and velvety, as though it had been breathed in by too many people over too many years. Valentina found it appealing that a man with such modern ideas chose to live in such an old-fashioned apartment house.

  He opened the door with a flourish. “Would you care to step inside?”

  She shook her head. “I think I’d better not.”

  “Of course.” He inclined his head courteously. “We wouldn’t want to compromise your reputation, would we?”

  He was laughing at her beneath that polite manner of his.

  “Maybe,” she said with a flick of her dark hair, “it would be permissible ... as your cousin, you understand.”

  The green eyes grew greener. “As my cousin,” he echoed.

  She walked past him into the apartment.

  IT WAS LIKE NO OTHER ROOM SHE’D BEEN IN. THE FURNITURE was all pale honey-blond with such plain straight lines that for a moment she thought it was unfinished. The floor, made of sanded pine boards, was strewn with colorful rugs, and in front of the fire lay a large long-haired fur rug, as creamy as a dish of milk. On the walls were hung framed pictures of reindeer in snowy landscapes. It was hard not to stare.

  “So, cousin, may I offer you tea?”

  “No, Jens, thank you. I mustn’t stay long.”

  He took both her gloved hands in his and studied them. “Such small hands.” His finger touched her palm. “Yet so much talent in them.”

  She shook her head. Her lungs felt as if they were overheating.

  “So,” he said, “what is it you need to talk to me about?” He didn’t release her.

  “You said you have a friend who is a doctor.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “I need his help.”

  His grip on her hands tightened. “Are you ill?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “What kind of help then?”

  So she told him. About the hospitals. It all came rushing out, the scornful eyes across the desks, the rejections. She told him that all of them regarded her as unsuited to nursing. Despite needing nurses, none of them trusted her.

  “Not even my own family doctor will help.”

  She told Jens how angry it had made her and how she’d wanted to put her head down on the table and shout with frustration, but instead she’d walked all the way across town to this tree-lined avenue and waited for him. He listened without interruption, and when she’d finished he didn’t tell her to give it up. That was what she’d feared, that his voice would join all the others, would try to wrest her future out of her fingers without realizing how important it was to her. But he didn’t.

  “Come,” he said briskly. “We’ll go and speak to Dr. Fedorin.”

  “Spasibo. Thank you.”

  “He will help. Even if it means I have to promise to let him beat me at cards for the next month. But”—he leaned closer and studied her face intently—“are you sure this is what you want?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Very well. Let’s go and talk to the old quack.”

  “May I have my hands back?”

  He glanced down at them, surprised. As if they were somehow his now.

  “If you must.” He raised one to his lips and gave her a formal bow over it. “To the future of Sanitarka Ivanova.”

  Nurse Ivanova.

  She was finding it hard not to love this man.

  DR. FEDORIN WAS SEATED ON THE FLOOR OF HIS DRAWING room playing cards with his five-year-old daughter when they arrived, scratching at his whiskers in an effort to concentrate.

  “Excuse me if I don’t get up. My little Anna is thrashing me.”

  The child grinned up at them, holding her cards pressed against her small chin. “I let Papa win one game.” But she crowed with delight when he played his last card and she promptly trumped it. Her eager little hands scooped up the pile of sugared almonds with which they had been betting and Jens laughed, ruffling her feathery blond hair.

  “Anna, your father is the worst card player in Petersburg and you are going to be one of the best.”

  She popped an almond in her father’s mouth, patted his cheek consolingly, and scampered off to the window seat with her winnings. The doctor ordered wine to be served.

  “Now what can I do for you?” He inspected his guests with interest.

  “This is Valentina Ivanova,” Jens introduced her. “She needs your help, my friend. She wishes to train as a nurse but the hospitals have turned her down as unsuited.”

  “Are you?” the doctor addressed Valentina.

  “Am I what?”

  “Unsuited to the task.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe that judgment is not yours to make.”

  The words sounded harsh, but she didn’t object. How could she object to anything said by this man who, in his olive green trousers, sat sprawled like a long-legged grasshopper on the floor with his daughter and let her beat him at cards? She didn’t know fathers did that.

  “Let me tell you why I believe I am suited to nursing. I have helped nurse my paralyzed sister for the past six months. I have learned the anatomy of the human body, and”—she cast about for something else that would decide it for him—“I play the piano.”

  He blinked. She smiled. “I’ll teach your daughter to play ‘Für Elise’ right now.”

  Against the far wall of the room stood an upright piano with books piled on top of its lid, obviously never opened. The child abandoned her sugared almonds and stood stiff as a soldier, holding her breath.

  “My wife used to play,” the doctor said softly. “The piano hasn’t been touched since.”

  “I am sorry about your wife, Doktor. I would be proud
to play her piano and to teach her daughter. Is it a deal?”

  His gaze lingered longingly on the mahogany piano stool where his wife used to sit. He nodded.

  Anna skipped across the room to remove the books.

  THANK YOU, JENS.”

  He had driven her home in his carriage, but they had spoken little as the skies darkened and the lights on the bridges sprang into life. Winter afternoons were short-lived in St. Petersburg. Jens and Valentina stood on the gravel drive outside her house, their shadows shuffling awkwardly side by side. The words for good-bye wouldn’t come.

  “I am looking forward to the visit to your tunnels on Friday,” she said brightly. The darkness stole parts of his face from her. “It will be exciting to see what you have engineered.”

  “Good.”

  The way he said it. It wasn’t right.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing I can’t deal with.”

  She caught a glimpse of the weight he had to carry on his broad shoulders, the expectations he had to fulfill.

  “It’s a responsibility, isn’t it?” she murmured. “Each day.”

  “You will find the same when you’re nursing.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  That brought a smile at last. “I can’t wait to see you in your uniform.”

  She laughed, but she could feel something wrong, like a knot in a smooth-running thread. “Thank you anyway for saving me from a fate too awful to contemplate. I would have died of tedium if I’d had to spend an afternoon watching grown men play with swords.”

  “Epées. Not swords.”

  She shrugged. “Both are boring.”

  “And tunnels aren’t?”

  “No, tunnels definitely aren’t. They have a purpose.”

  He took a small step back. Away from her.