He thought of following her. If she was in St. Louis, then surely Rubalev was as well. Something stirred inside him. His small, uneventful life, a life it had cost him some effort to find, suddenly seemed more precarious, but also more empty. He saw himself going on as he was, doing his work, living on the edges of the life of this city, never thinking further ahead than the next day or week. Such a life had been enough for a while, and maybe he had needed that calm during the years after the war, but now—
Lemuel steadied himself. He had not felt this restless and dissatisfied for some time. He had not allowed himself to have such feelings. Perhaps the trip to New Orleans had awakened his restlessness.
He would not follow Katia. He did not know what she was doing in one of the modest dwellings on this street, but perhaps Rubalev knew people here and had sent her to that house for some reason. If Rubalev was in St. Louis, he was most likely staying at one of the better hotels, and would soon be leaving the city once more. Better, Lemuel told himself, not to seek the man out.
He continued toward Mrs. Gerhardt’s house, feeling uneasy with himself.
***
There was a knock on Lemuel’s door. “Come in,” he said.
Virgil entered the room and thrust an envelope at him as Lemuel rose from his chair. “Letter came for you, suh,” he said.
Lemuel had sent the black man out with a letter to Ely Parker and enough money for the postage. His life was becoming more eventful than it had been in a while, with two letters in less than a week. He peered at the envelope and saw that it had been mailed from Fort Kearney in Nebraska; the spidery handwriting was unfamiliar.
Lemuel sat down. Virgil shifted from one foot to another. “Mr. Rowland,” he said slowly, “don’t know how much longer I be livin’ here.”
Lemuel looked up quickly. “Is Mrs. Gerhardt giving you any trouble?”
“No, suh. I—” The black man was gazing at him directly, without the usual blank expression he wore in front of most other people. “I guess I can tell you. I’s thinkin’ of going west. Don’t got much, but I got enough to go somewheres and then think about where I might go after that.”
“I’ll be sorry to see you leave,” Lemuel said.
“I can write some now. I can send you a letter from where I end up.” Virgil’s pronounciation was more precise than before.
“You do that,” Lemuel said. He would need the practice; Virgil could write out short sentences now, but his spelling made them hard to decipher.
“You want a good man, put Moses in my job. The other darkies’ll listen to him.”
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll probably take it.” Lemuel paused. “When do you plan to leave?”
“Not for two or three days, suh.”
“Well.” He did not know what else to say. In two or three days, maybe Virgil would change his mind again. Perhaps Mrs. Gerhardt could be talked into raising his wages for the odd jobs a little. He realized just how much he would miss the colored man, how few friends he had here.
Virgil left the room, closing the door. Lemuel suddenly felt exasperated with himself. He had grown softer during the past years, and lazier. He wondered if he would still be able to endure a day’s march with a rifle and a knapsack or spend days on horseback, as he had during his brief time among the Lakota. He had accepted the limits others had put around him and fashioned his quiet, small life inside them.
He thought of the young man who had taken Ely Parker for an example, who had learned and struggled and made the whites around him allow him a place in their world, however grudgingly. He would have despised what Lemuel had become. Even Virgil, with more obstacles in his path, was willing to chance following a new trail.
He opened the letter in his hand and glanced at the signature. Colonel Jeremiah Clarke, one of his former comrades in arms, was writing to him. Jeremiah Clarke had remained in the army after the war, but Lemuel had lost track of him some time ago. He leaned back in his chair. Jeremiah was one of the few men he had known who seemed to possess no bigotry. Indeed, the colonel had numbered Donehogawa among his closest friends.
The letter was short; he read it quickly. Jeremiah had heard that he was living in St. Louis. He himself would be in St. Joseph next month, in case Lemuel had any business there. A few of his black troopers had recently deserted, apparently lured by stories of an Elysium on the Plains run by a Sioux chief who called all men brothers. Jeremiah and Lemuel’s former brother-in-arms Custer were wondering why Washington was holding back from sending forces against the growing number of Indians who refused to keep to reservations and lands near the trading posts, and Jeremiah suspected that their old friend Ely Parker was urging restraint. But sooner or later, the officers would have to lose patience. The next provocation by the Indians would bring severe punishment. Jeremiah hoped that it would not come to that, but feared it would, and if it did, he would have to do his duty.
Lemuel stared at the letter for a while. Donehogawa might have told Jeremiah Clarke that he was living in St Louis; how else would Jeremiah have known where to send the letter? It seemed more than a coincidence that both men were suggesting that he travel to St. Joseph.
***
“There was a woman here,” Mrs. Gerhardt said at breakfast, “looking for you last night, after you went to bed.”
Lemuel sat down, averting his eyes from the two other boarders at the table. The widow Gerhardt sounded disapproving; he felt the other two men watching him.
“Did she give you her name?” Lemuel asked, pouring himself some coffee.
“No, she didn’t. Don’t get me wrong—she looked respectable enough, not all painted up, but she seemed upset and worried about something. I said I wasn’t going to wake up one of my roomers in the middle of the night and told her to come back another time.”
It had not been quite the middle of the night; he had gone to bed right after supper, feeling unusually tired. But a strange woman, coming here to see him—the two men across the table were probably already wondering if he had a secret sweetheart, maybe even if he had got her into trouble.
“I don’t know who she could be,” he said as he reached for some eggs and ham. The skeptical, amused looks that passed between the others around the table told him that no one believed him.
Lemuel ate quickly and left the house. Two horses pulling a wagon trotted by, followed by a buggy and another horse and landau; he waited for them to pass. Some rain had fallen the night before, making the road even slicker than usual. He was about to cross the street when he saw Katia on the other side. She wore the black bonnet and cape he had seen her in before, but her dress was gray this time, with a mud-stained hem.
She walked toward him before he could cross; he waited. “Mr. Rowland,” she said as she came up to him.
“How do you do, Miss Rubalev,” he responded, touching his hat and taking refuge in formality. “I didn’t know that you were back in St. Louis.”
“You knew. You saw me the other day, on this street. I did not know what to say to you, that’s why I didn’t say anything. I thought you might follow me, but you didn’t.”
“Were you the woman who came to see me last night?” he asked. “I was told—”
“Yes, I came here. I have to talk to you, Mr. Rowland. I don’t know anyone else in St. Louis.” Her face was more drawn than it had been two years ago, and she seemed thinner, but her large dark eyes were still lustrous, her pale brown skin still flawless and unmarked.
“Isn’t Mr. Rubalev here with you?”
“No.” Her fingers tightened around the small purse she carried. “I am here alone. Mr. Rowland—” She swayed; he caught her by the elbow.
“I was on my way to work,” he said.
“Mr. Rowland, I am out of money. I have nowhere to go. I can no longer pay for my room where I am staying, so I must pack my bag and leave today.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the house where you saw me the other day. You look surprised, Mr. Rowland.”
“I suppose I thought that you would be living at the hotel where you stayed before, or at another as well appointed.” But of course she would not have had the money for that, not without Rubalev. “Miss Rubalev, I must go to work.” He let go of her arm and reached into his pocket. “I can give you a little money.” He quickly pressed the coins into her hand. “That ought to be enough for at least a week’s rent.”
Her cheeks reddened. “I am too much in need to refuse it.” She thrust the coins into her purse. Lemuel wondered if anyone was watching them from Mrs. Gerhardt’s sitting room window, but did not look back to find out. “Will I see you again?”
She sounded both artless and desperate. “I’ll meet you later—this evening,” he said. There could be no harm in that. “I’ll wait for you here, in front of the house.” By now Mrs. Gerhardt, or anyone else watching from the window, would be assuming that there was something between him and Katia. “There’s a fairly good restaurant two streets from here—the food isn’t fancy, but it’s plentiful and not too dear.”
Her face brightened. She probably had not eaten for a while, either. He did not have time to go inside and get her more money for some food.
“I must go now, Miss Rubalev.”
“Katia,” she said, “please call me Katia.” Her eyes narrowed. “I do not want you to call me by his name.”
“At six o’clock,” Lemuel said. He was already late. He tipped his hat to her and strode away.
***
Lemuel was descending the steps of Mrs. Gerhardt’s house when he saw Katia walking toward him. He murmured a greeting and took her arm to lead her down the street. She said nothing as they walked, and he decided not to ask her any questions until later.
He had a number of questions that he wanted to ask. Why had she left Rubalev? Or was it he who had asked her to leave, and she was simply afraid to admit it? He recalled the harder look he had occasionally glimpsed in the man’s face. Rubalev was probably capable of abandoning a woman without a qualm, but he could also have followed her to St. Louis.
Only half of the tables at Morrissey’s were taken. Lemuel guided Katia to a table next to one wall, away from the other diners. A waiter with an unfamiliar accent took their order.
“I have my room for another week,” Katia said. “You were kind to give me some money.”
“It was nothing.”
“I have been here for only two weeks—I didn’t think I could spend so much money so quickly. It isn’t that I cannot do anything, Mr. Rowland. I know how to sew and to do some cooking, I can read and write and keep accounts. But I do not know how to find any work.”
He was about to ask her to address him by his Christian name, then decided against it. Better, he thought, to keep his distance until he knew more. She had been here for two weeks. Rubalev might already be in this city, looking for her.
The waiter came back with a pot of coffee and cups. Lemuel poured some for them. “Why did you come here?” he asked.
“I didn’t know where else to go.” She tapped her fingers nervously against her cup. “When I came here, I went to the hotel where we stayed before. I soon found out that I could afford only two nights with the money I had left if I was to keep anything to live on. Fortunately, I have a good memory—I remembered the name of the street where you told us you had let your room.” She kept her eyes down. “It isn’t that I was looking for you, Mr. Rowland. I thought only that around here, I might find lodgings that I could afford. I didn’t think that you would still be living here.”
“I assumed you were in St. Louis with Mr. Rubalev. That’s one reason I didn’t follow you. I didn’t want to meddle in any of his business.”
“I found out where you lived a day later,’’ she continued. “I saw you go into that house. I thought—” She lapsed into silence; he did not press her.
The waiter returned with two plates of chicken and biscuits and a bowl of collard greens. Katia had finished half of her plate by the time Lemuel had taken a few bites. “You needn’t answer this,’’ he said. “Perhaps it’s none of my concern, but why did you leave Mr. Rubalev?”
“He is angry with me, and I know why. He thinks that I haven’t been as useful to him as he had hoped I might be.”
She ate the rest of her supper in silence. Lemuel finished his food, restraining himself from prodding her with more questions. At last he said, “I have heard that Mr. Rubalev is in St. Joseph.”
She raised her head; her eyes widened.
“So presumably you came here from there,” he continued.
She nodded. “I took the train to Hannibal, and a boat from there to St. Louis. It cost more than I expected. I’m not used to handling money—Grisha always took care of that.” Her mouth tightened. “He trained me so well for some things and so poorly for others.”
“What did you think you would do after you left him?” He tried to say the words gently.
“I don’t know. I didn’t think, I simply had to get away from him. I thought of going to my people first, but I would have needed someone to guide me, I could not have ridden there alone.”
Lemuel was surprised. “You mean that you were ready to ride to a Sioux camp? That’s hard to believe. It would have been extremely hard on you. You might not even have survived it.”
She gazed at him steadily. “I am more used to Lakota ways than you realize. I passed some of the past two years among my own people. That is part of what troubles me, Mr. Rowland. I live one way, and then another way, and neither way is truly mine. Grisha has made me an outsider among both the Lakota and the Wasichu, and then he grows angry with me because—”
Her voice has risen slightly. She glanced around the room, but the other diners were paying them no mind. Lemuel was beginning to see how this evening would end. Katia, with no one to turn to and no way to make a living—apart from a manner not fit to mention in respectable company—would prevail upon him to help her.
And, he told himself, he probably would help her, out of pity and also because she had touched his heart.
“I shouldn’t say any more to you,” she said, “not without knowing that you will keep it to yourself.”
He leaned back and folded his arms. “Katia, I know almost no one here. The closest I have to a friend in St. Louis is a colored man who’s going to be leaving here tomorrow or the day after. There’s no one I talk to, and the only man I write to regularly is Commissioner Parker in Washington.” He corrected himself. “The former commissioner.”
She lifted her brows slightly.
“He resigned his post recently,” he continued. “Perhaps you hadn’t heard. The people who were using the Indian Bureau to line their own pockets finally forced him out, it seems.”
“I didn’t know,” she said. “Grisha is still corresponding with him, too.”
“Ely Parker informed me that Mr. Rubalev was in St. Joseph. He even suggested that I give him my regards if I found myself there.”
“Then I can speak openly to you,” Katia murmured. “Grisha might have written to Ely Parker about his disappointment with me and about what he is trying to do. Now Mr. Parker is perhaps thinking that you may be more useful to him and to Grisha.” Her mouth twisted. “I have a husband, Mr. Rowland. My husband is a Lakota chief. Some say that he may become the greatest of our chiefs, and some say that he is already.”
Lemuel was too surprised to feel disappointment that another man had won her.
“His name is—” She shook her head. “You would call him Touch-the-Clouds.” Lemuel kept his face still. “He has alliances with the Kiowa, the Comanche, even the Crow. He has more allies than the Wasichu know about. But he needs other friends.”
The waiter approached their table. Lemuel asked him to bring more coffee and two pieces of apple pie and sent him away again. The chief called Touch-the-Clouds, he realized, was probably behind the letters from Donehogawa and Jeremiah Clarke, and maybe even behind Virgil Warrick’s decision to go west. He remembered the way Rubalev had
talked to him about a war that might start in the West. Why was Touch-the-Clouds welcoming others to his lands? To have peace, or to find more allies for a war?
“If I may ask this,” he said, “what brought you to marry this Sioux chief?”
“It was Grisha’s doing. I think he had it in mind all along, making me a wife to Touch-the-Clouds. My husband had one wife already, but Grisha brought me to his camp, and I was soon married to him. I think Grisha thought that he might come to care more for me, or that I would give him a son, so that I could win some influence over him. Perhaps he thought that my husband would take some counsel from my visions.” Katia frowned. “But my husband heeds no visions except his own, and no more visions have come to me. I also have given him no son.”
She fell silent when the waiter returned with their coffee and pie. Lemuel calculated how much the supper would cost him. Katia would need some more money for food and to keep her room. He would have felt happier about helping her if something might have come of it.
“So you left your husband,’’ he said.
“He allowed me to leave him. I had the right, and he had no use for me—he wanted me to go. Grisha and I went to Chicago and then back to Washington—he would leave me alone in my rooms while he wrote his letters and met with various men. A year later, we were back in my husband’s camp, and this time Grisha had a use for me. Touch-the-Clouds wanted to learn English. I was his teacher. He learned it quite quickly, more quickly than I expected.”
“Why did he want to learn it?” Lemuel asked.
She looked away from him and did not answer for a few moments. At last she said, “He knows that he must learn more of the white man’s ways to get what he wants. Grisha taught him that.”
“And what does he want? To hold the whites to their treaties?”
“I don’t know what he wants, but I think it’s more than keeping what was promised to our people by treaty. You heard Grisha’s story about the great chief on the other side of the world. Touch-the-Clouds has heard it, too. He and Grisha have the same dream, I think. But Grisha has lost some of his power over him. He thought that I could help in winning back his influence, and that didn’t work, and now I think that he is looking for someone else to use.”
Climb the Wind: A Journey Into Another Past Page 9
