by Tom Bradby
White, fearful faces flashed past his eyes as he focused on the broad expanse of Liteiny Prospekt, stretching away into the distance. Maria gripped him, her face wild. “You’re a fool,” she said.
Ruzsky turned and saw that a horse and rider were almost upon them.
In a split second, they would be dead.
Ruzsky could not move.
Then he was pushed violently. For a moment, as he was tumbling toward the flailing hooves, he knew that she had propelled him to his death.
But as he hit the snow, he rolled over in time to see Maria take the full force of the collision, her body like a rag doll. The rider was thrown forward, the horse whinnying as it skidded to its knees.
Ruzsky heard more gunfire, and screaming all around him. Ahead, a group of infantrymen were kneeling in the snow, firing volley after volley above the crowd.
Maria was lying flat on her back. He bent down and took her in his arms. Her eyes were open, but her face was as lifeless as a statue.
Ruzsky ran. He careered into the side of a horse and heard a curse, but kept charging down Liteiny Prospekt.
He heard another volley of shots and more screams. He ran faster, slipping and crashing onto his back as he reached the corner.
As he rolled over, Ruzsky saw a Cossack lash out with his whip against the head of the woman who had been running alongside him. She collapsed.
Ruzsky lay still. They were encircled by three horsemen who were eliminating moving figures one by one until they were just so many black stains upon the white earth. Ruzsky could hear people crying for help. He raised his head and looked back toward the bridge. There was no crowd now.
A young girl had climbed to her feet and was running toward where they lay. A Cossack circled her, shrieking like a banshee, the glint of steel above his head before he slashed down across the girl’s face, cutting it open from the eyes to the chin.
The Cossack yelled again, punching the air with his saber.
Ruzsky edged forward and touched Maria’s alabaster cheek. He heard the thunder of hooves and half turned, but the horse passed within inches of him, kicking snow into his face as its rider sought another figure fleeing for the cover of a nearby house.
Ruzsky stood again and scrabbled for Maria in the snow. She felt pitifully slight, her head lolling back against his arm.
In the distance up ahead he saw a private carriage still waiting outside one of the huge houses, a world away from the gunfire and screams.
Ruzsky ran toward it. He slipped, almost fell, but regained his footing and ran on, the sounds becoming distant echoes as he focused on his destination.
He heard the thunder of a horse’s hooves again and turned. The rider was close, bent for the strike, and Ruzsky stopped suddenly and swerved toward the iron railings of the houses alongside them.
The Cossack swung his whip down, but missed. He spun the horse around, turning on the smallest circle Ruzsky had ever seen, and charged toward them again, his long whip raised high above his head, his saber bouncing up and down at his side.
Ruzsky stood with his legs apart, Maria in his arms, offered up like a sacrifice. He breathed in deeply. “Police!” he yelled. “I’m a police officer!”
He saw the shock in the rider’s eyes and the sudden uncertainty as he lowered the whip and veered away, almost crashing into the railings.
“City police!”
“You shouldn’t be here!” the Cossack shouted. “You shouldn’t be here!” He waved his hand and then wheeled away.
For a moment, Ruzsky stood with his eyes closed, swaying with relief. He tipped himself forward and stumbled into a run, focusing on the carriage ahead once again. When he reached it, he almost threw Maria onto its floor. “The Hospital of St. George,” he shouted.
The startled driver snapped the reins. “Quick,” Ruzsky shouted. “She’s badly hurt.” He knelt over Maria. He checked her pulse and then bent his face low over her own to check that she was breathing.
He couldn’t see any blood, but looked carefully around her scalp, her ears, and her neck. He bent down. “Don’t go,” he whispered. “I’ve only just found you. Please don’t go.”
She didn’t move. Her face was still and cold to the touch.
40
A crowd thronged the entrance to the hospital. Two orderlies carried a patient on a stretcher out of a motorized ambulance, shouting at the wounded to allow them passage. Ruzsky swept Maria into his arms and jumped down into the snow, trying to push his way through the crowd. “Let me pass,” he shouted.
“Wait your turn!” a woman in front hissed. She turned, half illuminated by the gas lamp high on the wall above the great wooden doors at the hospital’s entrance. She had blood streaming down her face.
Ruzsky swung around, so that he was walking backward. He shoved hard, using his height, weight, and strength to push through the jostling, cursing crowd. He glanced down at Maria, but she hung lifeless in his arms.
There were two soldiers at the entrance to the hospital, trying to keep people back, but he pushed past them into the hallway.
Inside the cavernous reception area, the wounded were lying on the floor in all directions alongside soldiers from the front for whom no bed had been found. There was no one behind the reception desk and nurses in dirty blue and white uniforms, with a red cross on the chest, darted through the lobby trying to avoid cries for help.
The orderlies who had been carrying the stretcher lowered it to the floor in the center of the room and began to shout for assistance. The body of the injured woman was covered with a dark blanket, but her head jerked violently from side to side.
Ruzsky looked down at the woman in his arms. “Maria?” he whispered. But she did not open her eyes.
Ruzsky moved to the far corner and laid her down gently. “I’ll find a doctor,” he said.
He ran through the enormous wooden and glass doors to the ward beyond, the fetid smell that assaulted him so violently unpleasant that he almost gagged. The room was full of the dead and dying, mostly soldiers covered in putrid, leaking bandages. There were many beds, but the injured were laid out on the floor between them and even in the aisle in the middle of the room.
This part of the hospital had once been a school and the tall windows and high ceilings ensured that it was freezing cold, despite the crush of human bodies. Ruzsky saw that several panes on the window closest to him had been broken. Few of the injured had blankets.
He ran forward past the hollow faces of the wounded-mostly peasants with long black beards, many of whom were unlikely to be leaving here alive and returning to their families in the Russian hinterland.
A patient began to scream at the far end of the room and Ruzsky caught sight of a doctor bending over a struggling soldier, trying to restrain him. After a few moments, the medic turned away.
“Doctor?” Ruzsky asked.
He looked up. He was a young man, a boy even, no more than twenty or twenty-one, but his face was as haggard and lined as that of someone twice his age, his eyes glazed with exhaustion. “Doctor, I need your help.”
The man stared at him.
“I need your help.”
“Everyone does.”
“Please, could you come this way.”
“I have work to do.”
“It will only take a minute.”
“Please wait your turn!”
After his explosion, the doctor looked as if he might cry. He put a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes, swaying unsteadily on his feet.
“Just one moment of your time, Doctor.”
“One moment,” he repeated, “my life is measured by moments.”
Ruzsky took his arm and began to lead him carefully down the center of the room. Briefly, it looked as if it might work, but the doctor soon rebelled against the way in which he was being maneuvered.
The doctor released himself from Ruzsky’s grip, turned around, and began to walk away in the opposite direction. Ruzsky ran after him. “Please, Doctor.”
“No!”
Ruzsky swung around in front of him. “Please. For Christ’s sake, don’t make me beg.”
“There are hundreds of patients.”
“But none like her.”
A glimmer of humanity flickered in the doctor’s exhausted eyes. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”
Ruzsky did not respond and the doctor rocked gently on his feet. “Fine. Where is she?”
Ruzsky turned and led the man down into the hallway. Maria lay on the floor, her eyes closed. He knelt down and touched her cheek.
The doctor knelt also.
“Doctor!” an old woman shouted from the other side of the hallway, but he ignored it. Ruzsky noticed that most people around them were waiting with quiet dignity and he felt ashamed, but unrepentant.
“What happened?” the doctor asked, as he took Maria’s pulse.
“The full impact of a horse,” Ruzsky said.
The doctor listened to her chest and then began to check her body with his hands, starting with her head and neck and shoulders and then moving down her chest. She opened her eyes, wincing as he touched her ribs, her face suddenly distorted by pain. She did not make a sound. Relief flooded Ruzsky.
“Any blood?”
He checked her clothes to answer his own question.
“Was she knocked out?”
“Yes,” Ruzsky answered.
“For how long?”
Ruzsky looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes,” he answered. “Perhaps twenty-five.”
The doctor held up three fingers.
“Three,” Maria answered weakly.
“Now?”
“Five.”
There was a piercing, haunting scream from inside the ward ahead of them, the roaring bellow of a wounded lion, but it had no impact whatsoever on the doctor. He covered each of her eyes in turn, checking the response of her pupils to light. He straightened. “Shock,” he said. “Take her home, keep her quiet. If the pain doesn’t lessen, bring her back.”
And before he had even finished his sentence, the doctor had mentally moved on. He stood and stared into the middle distance, oblivious to the cries for help all around him. Ruzsky saw a young boy lying on the floor on the opposite side of the hallway. He was painfully thin, his skin yellow and body wasted. He was with his mother and they both just stared at him.
Ruzsky bent down and scooped Maria into his arms. As he walked toward the exit, she leaned her head against his shoulder, her breath warm against his face.
Ruzsky let her down gently by the door to her apartment and supported her as he fumbled for the keys.
Once inside, he lowered her slowly onto the chaise longue, then took the sheepskin rug from the floor, laid it over her, and set about making and lighting a fire.
As it began to take, he turned to see that she was looking at him.
Ruzsky sat by her feet and they both watched the flames in silence. He moved closer, took her pulse, and then placed his hand against her forehead. He held up three fingers.
She did not respond.
Maria looked up at the changing patterns on the ceiling. The fire crackled loudly. Her skin glowed a soft, honeyed yellow.
“Are you in pain?”
She still did not answer. She closed her eyes.
Ruzsky waited, watching the firelight flickering on her face.
When she had drifted off to sleep, her chest rising and falling rhythmically and without apparent discomfort, he allowed himself to relax a little.
Ruzsky stood and glanced around the room, from the potted plant in the corner, to the theatrical posters and Parisian street scenes that adorned the walls. The richness of the decor had somehow become gloomy.
He made his way slowly to the window, glancing over his shoulder to be certain she was still asleep.
Outside, a cold wind whipped at the snowflakes and wind rattled the windows in their frames. Ruzsky wiped the condensation from the glass. Down below, the street was deserted.
He walked to the dresser, opened the front of it, and took out the bottle of bourbon, pouring himself a large measure, which he drank in one gulp. He tipped his head back in pleasure and relief. The desire to get blind drunk, so familiar from his time in Tobolsk, was overpowering. He poured himself another glass and drank that, too.
Maria lay still, her head tilted to one side.
Ruzsky thought about the boy at the factory, and wondered what had happened to his body.
Ruzsky moved to Maria’s desk and stood before a bundle of letters, an inkwell, two or three fountain pens, and a blotting pad.
Ruzsky glanced across at her once more, then untied the gold ribbon around the letters.
He began to sift through them. Most were notes and instructions from the Mariinskiy, some from Fokine, others from the theater’s administration department, formally offering her roles and discussing her salary. Ruzsky was surprised to see how little she was paid.
He reassembled the pile in the same order and retied the ribbon.
There were three drawers at the back of the desk and he opened each carefully in turn, his eyes upon Maria to be certain she did not wake.
They were all empty. It was as if they had been recently cleared out.
Ruzsky straightened again. He listened to the sound of the clock.
He watched the rise and fall of her chest.
He leaned forward to touch her face. She did not stir.
He sat down beside her.
Ruzsky allowed himself to drift back to Petrovo and the hours when he had prayed for the dawn to be delayed. He reached forward to take her pulse.
She slept deeply.
Ruzsky watched her, lost in thought.
Eventually, he stood and moved quietly down the corridor to her bedroom. He eyed the brass double bed and turned away from it, reaching over to switch on the light.
The room was bare. There was nothing on top of the chest of drawers or beside her bed, no photographs, hair brushes, or ointments.
Ruzsky began to pull open drawers. There were a few clothes in some, but no underwear, nor dresses hanging in the wardrobe.
He caught sight of two suitcases beneath her bed. He pulled them out and heaved them onto the mattress.
Inside were clothes and possessions packed for a hasty departure, including a battered photograph album and several bundles of letters. Ruzsky looked at the album first, but he knew before he opened it what it was going to contain.
Maria’s mother had looked strikingly like her. In fact, the facial and physical similarity between all three girls was remarkable. Her father was a big man, with a huge beard.
There were several pictures taken in front of a white house, smaller but not dissimilar in style to the royal palace at Livadia, a string of palm trees in the background. Maria and her sister were dressed in white, a young boy-their brother, perhaps-sandwiched between them.
Ruzsky was not aware that she had a brother. He wondered what had become of the boy.
He put the album down and untied the thickest bundle of letters. They were so dog-eared that some had almost fallen apart, and he laid each one carefully on the bed.
Most were in one hand-her mother’s-and full of the kind of expressions of endearment that he could not recall having received in any communication from his own parents. Even the few from her father displayed an easy and warm affection. They had been written when her parents had been away, mostly locally-places like Odessa and Sevastopol-but once from Moscow and twice St. Petersburg.
Ruzsky folded the letters away and retied them. With a heavier heart, he sifted through the rest of the suitcase. Hidden in the bottom, he found an envelope filled with rubles and a red leather jewelry case.
The case was crammed full of everything of value she possessed. Amongst the pieces, he noticed a diamond necklace that had once belonged to his mother. Dmitri must have given it to her.
Ruzsky closed the suitcase, switched off the light, and sat on the bed in darkness.
Maria dri
fted in and out of consciousness. Each time she awoke, her eyes fixed upon his, but she did not speak.
Ruzsky began to smoke. He listened to the clock and watched the minutes tick past.
There was a bookcase against the far wall and Ruzsky decided to look for something to keep himself awake. The selection was not extensive, but contained most of the Russian classics. He ran his finger along the leather-bound volumes. He took out and glanced through a collection of Pushkin’s poetry, before replacing it carefully.
A volume on the top shelf caught his eye and he reached up and took it down. It was a copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It was the only book in English she possessed.
It was an odd choice.
Ruzsky turned it over in his hand, then scanned the shelf once more to see if there was another work in English. There wasn’t.
He thought of the claim he had made to Pavel that the marks on the ruble notes amounted to a secret message in code.
The reference book had to have been in English for the benefit of the American. Isn’t that what he and Maretsky had agreed? Major works of English fiction, so that the American could get the work out of a library in Chicago, or Baltimore or Boston.
Uncle Tom’s Cabin was perfect. An American novel that was popular in Russia.
The book was well thumbed and Ruzsky began to leaf through it.
He reached into his pocket, removed the roll of rubles, and returned to Maria’s desk. He sat down and took out a sheet of paper. As he had done in the office, he assembled the notes in order of the numbers written inside the double-headed eagle.
He examined the figures underlined in each serial number. The sequence on the first note was 4692.
Ruzsky looked at it for a moment. It could refer to page four, line sixty-nine, and letter two. Or page four, line six, letters nine and two. Or page forty-six, line nine, letter two. Or page four, line six, word nine, letter two.
He worked through the novel. On page four, there was no line sixty-nine, so he ruled out that possibility. For the other combinations, he made neat notes on the page ahead of him.
