The House of Special Purpose (55 page)

I want to say this, but of course I do not.

‘I’ll be at the nurses’ station when you need me,’ says Dr
Crawford, opening the door. ‘Please, come and get me any time you want.’

‘Thank you,’ I say and she steps away now and leaves me alone in the corridor before the door. I push it open.

I look inside.

I enter.

‘Is it safe?’ I asked her as we sat outside the café in Hamina, on the south-eastern Finnish coast, looking towards the islands of Vyborgskiy Zaliv in the distance, towards St Petersburg. Of course, Zoya had planned this all along. It was to be our last trip together. It was she who had chosen Finland, she who had suggested that we travel further east than we had originally planned, and she who had insisted upon our taking this last voyage together.

‘It’s safe, Georgy,’ she told me, and I said that if it was what she wanted, then it was what we would do. We would go home. Not for long. A couple of days at most. Just to see it. Just to be there one last time.

We stayed in a hotel next to St Isaac’s Cathedral, arriving in the late afternoon, and sat by the window staring out at the square, two tall mugs of coffee before us, finding difficulty in speaking to one another, so moved were we to be back.

‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’ she asked, shaking her head as she watched the people walking quickly along the street outside, doing their best not to be run over by the cars driving quickly every which way. ‘Did you ever think you’d be here again?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I never imagined it. Did you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said quickly. ‘I always knew we’d come back. I knew it wouldn’t be until now, until the end of my life—’

‘Zoya …’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Georgy,’ she said, smiling tenderly and reaching across to place her hand on top of my own. ‘I’m not trying to be morbid. I should have said that I knew I would come back when
I was an old woman, that’s all. Don’t worry, I have a couple of good years left in me yet.’

I nodded. I was still growing accustomed to Zoya’s illness, to the idea of losing her. The truth was that she looked so well it was difficult to believe that there was anything wrong with her. She looked as beautiful as she had on that first evening when I had seen her standing with her sisters and Anna Vyrubova at the chestnut stand on the bank of the Neva.

‘I wish we had brought Arina here,’ she said, surprising me a little, for she did not often speak of our daughter. ‘I think it would have been quite something to show her where she came from.’

‘Or Michael,’ I said.

She narrowed her eyes and looked less certain. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, considering it. ‘But even now it might be dangerous for him.’

I nodded and followed her gaze outside. It was night-time, but darkness had not yet fallen. We had both forgotten, but remembered at the same moment.

‘The White Nights,’ we said in unison, bursting out laughing.

‘I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘How could we have forgotten the time of year? I was beginning to wonder why it wasn’t getting any darker.’

‘Georgy, we should go out,’ she said, filled with sudden enthusiasm. ‘We should go out tonight, what do you think?’

‘But it’s late,’ I said. ‘It may be bright, but you need to rest. We can go out in the morning.’

‘No, tonight,’ she pleaded. ‘We won’t stay out for long. Oh please, Georgy! To walk along the banks of the river on a night like this … we cannot come this far and not do it.’

I gave in, of course. There was nothing she could ask of me that I would not agree to. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But we must dress warmly. And we cannot stay long.’

We left the hotel within the hour and walked down towards the banks of the river. There were hundreds of people strolling along
arm in arm, enjoying the late brightness, and it felt good to be at one with them. We stopped and looked at the statue of the Bronze Horseman in the Alexander Garden, watching as the tourists had their photos taken in front of it. We said little to each other as we walked, knowing where our feet were taking us, but not wanting to destroy the moment by speaking of it until we arrived.

Passing by the Admiralty, we turned right and were soon confronted with the General Staff quarters circling Palace Square. Before us was the Alexander Column and standing before it, as bright and powerful as I remembered it, the Winter Palace.

‘I remember the night I arrived here,’ I said quietly. ‘I can recall passing the column as if it was only yesterday. The soldiers who brought me here dumped me by the side of the palace, and Count Charnetsky looked at me as if I was something he had discovered on the heel of his boot.’

‘He was a grump,’ said Zoya, smiling.

‘Yes. And then I was brought inside to meet your father.’ I shook my head and sighed deeply to prevent myself from becoming overwrought with memories. ‘That’s more than sixty years ago,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It’s impossible to believe.’

‘Come,’ she said, leading me forward towards the palace itself, and I followed her cautiously. She had grown silent, her mind no doubt filled with many more memories than I had myself of this place; she had grown up here, after all. Her childhood, and that of her siblings, had been spent inside these walls.

‘The palace will be locked at this time of night,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps, if you wanted to go inside—’

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘No, I don’t want that. Just this. Look, Georgy, do you remember?’

We were standing in the small quadrangle between the front gates and the doors, the twelve colonnades surrounding us where the horseman had gone by too quickly, startling her, and she had fallen into my arms. The place where we had kissed for the first time.

‘We hadn’t even spoken to each other,’ I said, laughing at the memory of it.

Zoya leaned forward and embraced me once again, standing before me in the place where we had stood all those years before. This time, when we separated, it was difficult to speak. I could feel myself growing overwhelmed with emotion and wondered whether this had been a bad idea, whether we should have come here at all. I looked back towards the square and reached into my pocket for my handkerchief, dabbing at the corners of my eyes, determined that I would not lose control of my emotions.

‘Zoya,’ I said, turning back to her, but she was no longer beside me. I looked around anxiously and it took only a moment to locate her. She had slipped into the garden that stood between us and the palace door, and was sitting by the side of the fountain. I watched her, remembering when I had seen her at that fountain once before, in profile, and as I did so she turned her head and looked at me and smiled.

She might have been a girl again.

We walked slowly back towards the hotel along the bank of the Neva.

‘Palace Bridge,’ said Zoya, pointing towards the great structure that connected the city, from the Hermitage across to Vasilievsky Island. ‘They finished it.’

I laughed out loud. ‘Finally,’ I said. ‘All those years of a half-completed structure. First, they couldn’t complete it in case the noise kept you awake at nights, and then—’

‘The war,’ said Zoya.

‘Yes, the war.’

We stopped and looked at it, and felt a surge of pride in the fact of it. It was a good thing. It had been completed at last. Connections could now be made with those on the island. They were no longer alone.

‘My apologies,’ said a voice to our right and we turned to see an
elderly man, dressed in a heavy greatcoat and scarf. ‘Could I trouble you for a light?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, glancing at the unlit cigarette he held out towards me. ‘I’m afraid I don’t smoke.’

‘Here,’ said Zoya, reaching into her bag and removing a packet of matches; she didn’t smoke either and it surprised me that she would have them, but then the contents of my wife’s handbag have long been a mystery to me.

‘Thank you,’ said the man, taking the box. I glanced to his left and noticed his companion – his wife, I assumed – staring at Zoya. They were about the same age, but, like my wife, age had not diminished her beauty. Indeed, her elegant features were spoiled only by a scar that ran along her left cheek to a point below the cheekbone. The man, who was handsome with thick white hair, lit his cigarette, smiled and thanked us.

‘Enjoy your evening,’ he said and I nodded.

‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘And you.’

He turned to take his wife’s hand and she was staring at Zoya with an expression of tranquillity upon her face. None of the four of us spoke for a moment and then, finally, the woman bowed her head.

‘May I have your blessing?’ she asked.

‘My blessing?’ asked Zoya, the words catching in her throat even as she said them.

‘Please, Highness.’

‘You have it,’ she said. ‘And for what little it is worth, I hope that it brings you peace.’

It’s bright now, it’s morning time, and the living room looks cold and unwelcoming as I open the door and let myself in. I stop for a moment, glance towards the table, the cooker, the armchairs, the bedroom, this small place where we have made our lives together, and hesitate. I’m not sure if I can go any further.

‘You don’t have to come back here,’ says Michael, also hesitating
in the doorway behind me. ‘It’s probably a good idea if you come back with me and dad today, don’t you think?’

‘I will,’ I say, shaking my head and stepping forward into the room. ‘Later on. Tonight, perhaps. Not right now, if you don’t mind. I think I’d like to be here. It’s my home, after all. If I don’t come in now, I never will.’

He nods and closes the door and we both step into the centre of the room, take our coats off and place them on one of the chairs.

‘Tea?’ he asks, already filling the kettle, and I smile and nod. He’s so English.

He leans against the sink as he waits for the kettle to boil and I sit down in my own armchair and smile at him. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a comic message printed across the front; I like that – it didn’t even occur to him to dress in a more sober fashion.

‘Thank you, by the way,’ I tell him.

‘For what?’

‘For coming to the hospital last night. You and your father. I’m not sure that I could have got through the night without you.’

He shrugs and I wonder for a moment whether he is going to start crying again; three or four times over the course of the night he has broken down in tears. Once when I told him that his grandmother had passed away. Once when he came in to see her. Once when I took him in my arms.

‘Of course I’d be there,’ he says, his voice nervous and emotional. ‘Where else would I have been?’

‘Thank you anyway,’ I say. ‘You’re a good boy.’

He nods and wipes his eyes, then puts teabags into two cups and fills them with boiling water, pressing them against the sides with a teaspoon rather than making a pot. If his grandmother was here, she’d roast him alive.

‘You don’t have to think about it right now,’ he says, sitting opposite me and putting the cups down. ‘But you know that you can come to ours, don’t you? To live, I mean. Dad will be fine with it.’

‘I know,’ I say, smiling. ‘And I’m grateful to you both. But I think not. I’m healthy still, don’t you think? I can manage. You will visit me though, won’t you?’ I ask nervously, unsure why I am asking this since I already know the answer.

‘Of course I will,’ he says, his eyes opening wide. ‘God. Every day, if I can.’

‘Michael, if you come here every day, I won’t open the door,’ I tell him. ‘Once a week will be fine. You have a life of your own to lead.’

‘Twice a week, then,’ he says.

‘Fine,’ I say, not looking to strike any deals.

‘And you know my play is coming up, don’t you? Two weeks from now. You’ll be there for opening night, won’t you?’

‘I’ll try,’ I say, unsure whether I can really go without Zoya by my side. Without Anastasia. I can see the look of disappointment on his face and I smile and reassure him. ‘I’ll do my best, Michael,’ I say. ‘I promise.’

‘Thanks.’

We sit and talk for a little while longer and then I tell him that he should go home now, that he must be tired, he’s been up all night.

‘I will if you’re sure,’ he says, standing up and stretching his arms in the air, yawning loudly. ‘I mean, I could sleep here if you want.’

‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s time you went home. We both need some sleep. And I think I’d like a little time on my own anyway, if you don’t mind.’

‘OK,’ he says, putting his coat on. ‘I’ll call around later tonight and see how you’re getting on. There’s …’ He hesitates, but decides just to say it. ‘You know, there’s arrangements that have to be made.’

‘I know,’ I say, walking towards the door with him. ‘But we can talk about them later. I’ll see you tonight.’

‘Later then, Pops,’ he says, reaching forward and kissing my
cheek, hugging me, and then pulling away before I can see the expression of grief on his face. I watch as he bounds up the steps towards the street, those long, muscular legs of his that can take him anywhere he wants to go. To be so young again. I watch and wonder at how he always manages to leave just as a bus is appearing, as if he refuses to waste even a moment of his life by waiting on a street corner. He jumps on the back of it and raises a hand to me, the uncrowned Tsar of all the Russias waving at his grandfather from the back of a London bus as it speeds off down the street while a conductor approaches him, demanding money for his fare.

It’s enough to make me laugh. I close the door behind me and sit down again, considering this, and truly, I find it so funny that I laugh until I cry.

And when the tears come I think
aah
…

So this is what it means to be alone.

Copyright © 2009 John Boyne

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