The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  ‘Do you know how long it’s been since Tsarskoe?’ He stared at Marie, not quite believing his eyes, not wanting to leave her side.

  She looked away without answering.

  ‘Three years and nine months,’ he said. She slowly turned her eyes back to him. ‘And each day I thought of you.’

  52

  Tallinn, June 1919

  Although they did not speak through the first few courses, Marie and Alexei stole glances at each other, smiling shyly when their eyes met. To both their surprise they found themselves ushered to seats next to each other. Alexei spent some time speaking to the elderly princess sitting to his right. An old woman with dark eyes and thin lips, she spoke loudly of having once travelled to Moscow in the same carriage as his wife, Emily. He then turned to speak to the man on Marie’s left, brushing her bare arm with the elbow of his jacket as he leant across her. Her skin grew hot and she reached for her serviette, hiding her blush behind it.

  When she had heard the butler announce Alexei’s name, she had thought that it must be her mind playing tricks on her. But when she saw him in the doorway she had almost cried out. She thought of approaching him and was still hesitating, undecided, when the bell had rung for dinner. Around her, voices grew muffled and indistinct as she watched him cross the room after the countess. She had followed her mother to the dining room in a state of agitation. She’d been determined to appear serene and composed when he saw her, but when at last he’d turned and their eyes had met, her heart had almost stopped. As he’d bent to kiss her hand, she’d felt the blood rush to her face and had had to look away, afraid of how much her expression might have revealed.

  She could barely believe he was sitting beside her now and she kept stealing glances at him to be sure she hadn’t imagined his presence. Up close, she noticed changes she had missed at first. His hair was lighter and thinner; a new hardness had matured his features and the faint lines on his face had deepened. But his confidence remained, and the quick intelligence in his eyes.

  As the plates from the last course were removed, Alexei leant over.

  ‘I almost did not come tonight,’ he said. His eyes were playful and she could not help smiling. ‘If not for the debt of gratitude I feel I owe Countess Golytsyn, I would have declined the invitation.’ He paused, his eyes drinking in her beauty. ‘And that would have been a tragedy.’

  ‘Why a tragedy?’ Marie asked, trying to conceal the joy she felt at hearing his words.

  ‘Because I would have missed seeing you look so lovely.’

  She beamed, then glanced nervously at her mother. Pauline Kulbas seemed to be engaged in deep conversation with her neighbours, but Marie was sure she was nonetheless aware of every small change in her daughter’s expression.

  ‘I need to know something.’ Alexei turned his whole body towards her. ‘I notice you’re not wearing a ring on your left hand.’

  Marie’s gaze instinctively dropped to her finger. ‘We never learnt what became of Pyotr.’

  ‘And your brother?’ His voice was tender and genuine in its concern.

  Marie shook her head. Feeling her control over her emotions slipping, she pushed back her chair. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I …’

  In her immediate vicinity the men half rose from their chairs before Marie motioned with her hand for them to stay seated. Alexei grasped her arm. ‘Please don’t go. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘I just need to …’ She faltered. ‘I’m fine,’ she repeated. ‘Truly.’ She smiled, resting a hand on his arm. ‘Please, don’t worry. I’ll be back shortly.’

  ‘She’s lovely,’ the princess said into Alexei’s ear as soon as Marie was gone. ‘She was engaged before the war. The poor boy went missing and was never heard of again.’ She took a sip of her wine. ‘She also lost a brother in the POW camps. They say she was very close to him. Ah, their poor mother.’ The old woman tutted, her eyes moving to Madame Kulbas. ‘She has never really recovered from the loss of her eldest son.’ She shook her head in sympathy. Turning to Alexei, she gave him an appraising look. ‘They say Marie, too, is heartbroken, but a young heart, even a broken one, is capable of mending. And she still has her whole life in front of her.’

  Alexei followed Marie with his eyes, his gaze lingering on the double doors as she slipped through them.

  ‘Please excuse me, Your Highness,’ he said, bowing to the princess. ‘I’ve just recalled a matter that requires my urgent attention.’ He moved briskly and a servant hurried to open the doors for him. In the vestibule, he spied Marie turning down a corridor and hastened to catch her.

  ‘Marie,’ he called softly.

  She stopped, but did not turn to face him. When he came closer, he noticed her shoulders trembling under her thin shawl.

  ‘The princess told me about your brother,’ he said gently. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘It must have been very hard for you, losing both of them.’

  She turned to look directly at him. ‘I miss both of them terribly.’ In the light of the corridor, her eyes shone brightly. ‘But …’

  Alexei waited for her to finish but instead she dropped her eyes, covering her mouth with her hand.

  ‘But what?’ Moving even closer, he lifted her chin so he could look into her face. ‘Tell me.’

  When she finally met his gaze, he noticed her eyes were moist.

  ‘I …’ A single tear ran down her cheek and he brushed it away gently with his fingers.

  Finally she said, ‘I miss my brother dearly. And I miss Pyotr. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of them, that I don’t wish them safely back home.’ She stopped and took a breath. ‘But I have missed you more.’

  Staggered, it took Alexei a moment to react. Cupping his hands around her face, he brought it close to his. She looked back at him, her eyes large and brimming with tears.

  ‘If you only knew how long I’ve dreamt of hearing you say those words.’

  ‘Oh, Alexei, I love you. I’ve always loved you but …’

  He did not let her finish. Her mouth parted as his lips closed over hers, kissing her, pouring into the kiss the years of separation and longing.

  He pulled back and held her close. ‘I can’t believe I’m holding you. I keep thinking I’m dreaming and will wake to find you gone.’ His lips touched the soft skin of her throat.

  A quiet moan escaped her and she gripped his jacket. Tightening his embrace, he covered her neck and shoulders with kisses.

  ‘I want to kiss all of you, explore every part of you.’ His hands roamed down her back and across her hips.

  ‘Alexei.’ She struggled feebly in his arms.

  ‘Don’t ask me to stop,’ he pleaded as his lips returned to brush hers. He felt dazed by the scent of her, the feel of her. ‘I love you, Marie.’

  Marie’s breath caught in her chest as Alexei’s kisses kindled a fire in her belly, making her body go weak.

  She pushed against him with little strength. ‘Please stop.’

  Alexei loosened his grip and she stepped back, the air returning to her lungs.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she said, even though every inch of her screamed to return to his arms. ‘I will not be your mistress.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ He moved closer, touching her face. ‘I haven’t been able to look at another woman since I met you.’

  ‘Please don’t come any closer.’ She pushed his hand away. ‘I will not enter into an affair. I won’t be used for your amusement.’

  ‘You are speaking in riddles. What amusement? I adore you.’

  ‘But you are a married man,’ she said.

  ‘Marie.’ He took her hand, his thumb tracing slow circles on her skin. ‘My marriage has been over for a long time. Emily has asked me for a divorce. She has moved to Paris with our daughters.’ Turning her hand over, he kissed the palm. ‘She suspected that I did not love her.’ He drew closer. ‘That I am in love with someone e
lse.’ He brushed her fingers with his lips. ‘And she was right. I’ve been in love with you since we first met in Petrograd.’

  Goosebumps covered her arms and shoulders.

  ‘You are trembling.’ He pulled her shawl higher over her shoulders.

  ‘Alexei,’ she murmured in a faint voice, ‘are you telling me the truth?’

  He smiled warmly then, lifting her hand, pressed it against his chest. ‘Can you feel that?’

  ‘Is that your heart?’ She leant closer. ‘It’s beating so fast.’

  ‘Because of you.’

  Hearing a sound, they stepped away from each other. The butler came through the servants’ door carrying a canister on a silver tray. Not noticing them, he hurried in the direction of the dining room.

  ‘They are serving dessert,’ Marie said, suddenly anxious that their long absence might be noticed. ‘We must go back.’

  She walked down the corridor ahead of him, feeling his eyes on her, and entered the dining room. He followed a few minutes later, brushing a hand over his hair as he took his place beside her.

  They did not speak for the remainder of their time at the table. Shortly after, the women retired to the drawing room.

  Alexei bowed to the ladies then, taking Marie’s hand, bent to kiss it. ‘It has been the most charming evening,’ he said, pressing her hand before letting it go. She smiled, suppressing a laugh at his formality.

  ‘I must see you again,’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she replied. ‘My parents receive callers from eleven.’

  Alexei’s eyes shone. ‘Till tomorrow, then … Marie.’ He drew out her name as if it were the most precious word in the Russian language. She smiled back, tiny wings fluttering inside her.

  53

  Western Russia, June 1919

  Fyodor’s fingers, stiff from having to hold the same position for too long, shook against the rifle.

  Spring had been slow to arrive but quick to make way for summer. The attack they had been predicting that morning had never materialised but the troops had kept their position. The sun baking his back, Fyodor shifted his rifle slightly to adjust its weight on his shoulder.

  A hand clapped his shoulder, startling him.

  ‘A little jumpy, aren’t you?’ Andrei Nikolaievich said.

  ‘It’s all the waiting,’ Fyodor confessed. ‘It always makes me nervous.’

  ‘Don’t worry, little Fedya.’ Andrei elbowed him in the ribs good-naturedly. ‘You will soon be put out of your misery.’

  Despite being only two years older and not much taller than Fyodor, Andrei had insisted on calling him ‘little Fedya’ from the very beginning. Soon everyone in his regiment called him that, despite his protests. While on sentry duty, Fyodor had allowed a soldier, a former major general from the imperial army, to pass without the proper papers. When the soldier didn’t return Fyodor had raised the alarm, but it was too late. The search parties sent to bring the deserter back had failed and Fyodor’s reputation as a youth still a little wet behind the ears had stuck.

  ‘Company ready?’ An order rang out through the ranks.

  Fyodor’s fingers tightened around his rifle.

  ‘Fire!’

  The peace of the open fields was shattered by the rattle of gunfire. Cannons boomed, creating craters where a moment ago there had been green grass.

  As one of the first line of men, Fyodor cleared the parapet and ran up the sloping hill. Jumping into a crater, he covered his head with his hand as a shell landed with a loud explosion. The air, thick with gun smoke, curled around him in a soupy swirl. He coughed into his sleeve then, lifting his head, tried to get his bearings. One of the officers to his left shouted instructions to his men over the noise of the gunfire, but his orders were cut short as a bullet tore open his chest and he fell to the ground, where he lay unmoving.

  Dropping his head again, Fyodor pressed himself flat against the dirt. Breathing hard, his heart hammered wildly in his ribcage.

  From behind him, he heard shouts and looked up to see Red Army soldiers running back to their trenches. Springing up, he ran after them, fearful of being left behind. A grenade exploded close to him and pain ripped through one leg as he fell hard on his side. Shocked by the sight of so much blood, Fyodor let out a loud moan and clutched at his leg with both hands. Around him, bullets whizzed and sang through the air at a relentless pace. It was strange that the thought which occupied Fyodor at that moment was not whether he would survive, but whether he would recognise his mother if he met her again. Conjuring up her image, he felt a moment of panic when her features did not fix themselves in his mind. As his mother’s face faded, it was replaced by Katya’s concerned eyes the day he had told her he’d joined the Red Army. At that moment, Fyodor looked up to see the long barrel of a rifle. His eyes grew round as a bright light, followed by a loud crack, exploded from it.

  Katya was busy applying iodine to a soldier’s wound when something made her look up at the men bringing in the bodies for burial. It might have been the colour of the hair reflected by the late afternoon sun or the small stature of the figure carried on the stretcher. Whatever it was, it caused Katya’s heart to jump and, ignoring the calling of the other nurses, she ran to catch up with them.

  By the time the stretcher-bearers had lowered the lifeless body to join the row of dead men, Katya was already pushing the men out of her way so she could look at the face. What she saw stilled the breath in her lungs.

  Fyodor – motionless, his skin translucent, his mouth open to one side – looked so peaceful that for a brief moment Katya thought he might only be sleeping.

  ‘Fyodor.’ She shook him by the shoulders. ‘Wake up.’

  His features seemed younger; more like the child who had once followed her everywhere than the youth who wanted to fight.

  ‘It’s Katya, Fyodor,’ she said, pushing past the lump in her throat. ‘Open your eyes and look at me. Fedya, please.’

  Tears rolled down her cheeks, dripping onto Fyodor. She moved to wipe his face. The clammy skin felt like clay under her fingertips and the shock of it made her draw back her hand. Grabbing his thin frame, she pressed him against her.

  Her cry of grief was that of a wounded animal, causing soldiers leaning on shovels, ready to bury the dead, to look to the heavens or down at their boots.

  Oblivious to them, Katya rocked back and forth, holding Fyodor’s body tightly against her. One of the soldiers stepped quietly behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder.

  Katya felt the pressure of the man’s fingers. She heard a gravelly voice telling her it was time to let go, but the meaning of the words did not sink in. It was only when a second pair of hands moved to lift her to her feet that she understood they wished to separate her from Fyodor. Wrenching her arms free, she threw herself back over the boy’s body.

  The men sent for the doctor and it was he who finally convinced Katya to let go. Her face awash with tears, Katya leant heavily on the doctor’s arm as the men lifted Fyodor and lowered him into the ground.

  ‘I found him lost and bewildered,’ Katya sobbed into her hands. ‘He held my hand with such trust, it broke my heart.’ She watched as the men poured dirt into the grave.

  ‘I cannot imagine I could love a son more than I loved Fyodor. He was like my own flesh and blood.’

  The doctor patted her back, then led her away from the graves to a cluster of grey tents. She did not resist as he sat her on a cot, unlaced and removed her boots, and lowered her head to the pillow. For the first time since she was a child herself, a gentle hand brushed away the loose strands of hair and pulled blankets up over her shoulders. Depleted, Katya did not turn her head to thank the doctor, but contined to cry till there were no more tears left to shed. Only then did she fall into a sleep of sad, meaningless dreams.

  54

  North-West Russia, August 1919

  Soft warm raindrops ran down the windows in tiny streams. Pulling back the heavy curtain, Bogoleev looked out acr
oss the vast manicured gardens. Ribbons of blue cigarette smoke trickled from his mouth and nose.

  Not far from where he stood, a man was slumped on a chair with his hands tied behind his back. Hair damp with sweat fell over his face. His top buttons were torn, revealing dried bloodstains on the white undershirt. Moaning softly under his breath, he ran a tongue over the fresh cut above his lip.

  ‘I swear to you I am innocent,’ he mumbled and his shoulders started to quake. ‘I know nothing of the crimes you accuse me of.’

  Bogoleev half turned to the man. ‘There are quite a few witnesses who have testified against you.’

  ‘They are lying,’ the prisoner cried desperately. His right eye was swollen shut and he had to turn his head slightly to look at Bogoleev through his good eye. ‘I have nothing but admiration and complete loyalty for our Comrade Lenin.’

  Bogoleev smiled from behind the blue smoke. ‘Of course,’ he said sympathetically, shrugging one shoulder. ‘Misunderstandings do occur.’

  ‘Yes! Yes, Comrade Commissar, that’s exactly what’s happened … just a misunderstanding. I’ve been wrongly accused of speaking against our leader.’ The prisoner strained his neck, looking up at Bogoleev with a watery smile, grateful to have met with a little understanding.

  ‘These things do happen.’ Circling the chair, Bogoleev tutted amiably and nodded. ‘And so with a clear conscience you claim never to have spoken a single word against our revolutionary leaders? And you have not tried to rally support for the White Army?’

  ‘I swear this has all been a great misunderstanding.’

  Bogoleev stared coldly at the slumped figure. He motioned to one of the soldiers at the back of the room. Stepping forward, the soldier struck the prisoner hard across the cheek, splattering the parquet with fresh blood. Grabbing a fistful of hair, Bogoleev lifted the man’s face to his.

  ‘I hate liars,’ he hissed.

  The prisoner’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the base of his throat.