The Jewel of St Petersburg (7 page)

4. Make Papa forgive me.

One day, Papa. One day.

What saddened her most was that she and her father had always had a quiet understanding, and now that was gone. He had never been an attentive parent and constantly put his work before everything, but he and she had always had a special bond between them. Katya was the one he petted, indulged, and smiled at most, and Valentina understood why: she was the image of her mother when she was young—blond, blue-eyed, and with a gentle smile. Whereas Valentina was like her father: dark-haired, brown-eyed, and possessed of a single-mindedness that matched his own.

Over the years he had made no secret of the fact that he often found his elder daughter maddening, but even when he was reprimanding her for some misdeed, there was a gleam of pride in his eye, a hint of respect in his voice. The way he might feel about the son he never had. But since the bomb he had withdrawn from her, and she felt the loss keenly.
He needs someone to blame,
her mother had said, but it didn’t seem right that it was her.

One day, Papa, one day, you will forgive me.

5. Obey Mama.

She was still working on that one.

6. Play the piano better every day.

What was the point now?

7. Play for the tsar.

She laughed at herself and drew a line through it.

8. Marry the Viking.

The words were already crossed out with fierce black strokes of ink. A silly girl’s fancy. She shrugged it off, ignoring the heat that rose up her neck.

9. Buy a gun.

She stared at that one and felt her pulse quicken. She’d not yet worked out a way to do it. The revolutionaries had come once. They could come again, the way bad dreams came back when you thought they were gone. But next time she would be ready for them.
Number 9.
She underlined it in black ink.
Buy a gun.
She sat with her eyes fastened on the list and thought out each point in detail. Finally she picked up her fountain pen and wrote one more:

10. Find a Bolshevik.

Find
the
Bolshevik. That was what she really meant. The promises of the police and of her father to make the bombers pay for their crime had proved as meaningless as the lies of the tsar himself. The men in hoods had vanished into thin air. Oh yes, pockets of known Bolsheviks had been rounded up and questioned, but no one knew anything of the ghosts who walked in the forest.

Find a Bolshevik.

D
OBROYE UTRO,
GOOD MORNING, MINISTER.”

“Dobriy den,
good afternoon, Minister.”

“Dobriy vecher,
good evening, Minister.”

Those were words that Viktor Arkin liked least. Instead of “Good morning, comrade.”

“Yes, master.
Da, barin.
”

“No, master.
Nyet, barin.
”

Those were words that grated in his gut.

Every day Arkin drove Minister General Nicholai Ivanov in the Turicum along the Embankment in St. Petersburg to the Ministry of Finance, and each day he listened to the words that were spilled in the back of the car. The minister had a loose tongue. Often he would talk too openly with colleagues as Arkin drove them across the city to meetings. Once Minister Ivanov had even been fool enough to leave his attaché case lying on the seat in the car after too many brandies at the Donon. Arkin had read its contents meticulously and made notes for an hour before he returned it to the minister.

Worst were the evenings. Waiting outside restaurants like a dog in the cold. Outside nightclubs. Outside brothels. Outside the mistress’s apartment on Izmailovsky Prospekt. But some days Madam Ivanova requested the car instead of the carriage, and on those days Arkin smiled.

A
RKIN WATCHED ELIZAVETA IVANOVA WALK DOWN THE front steps of the house and considered how women of this class moved differently, held themselves differently. You could wrap them in rags and still you would know who they were, what they were. Beautiful, elegant, fragrant parasites.

She approached across the gravel, picking her way with delicate care over the thin layer of snow that had fallen since the drive was last brushed an hour ago. He stood beside the car in his maroon uniform and peaked cap with its gold band and waited for her instructions.

“Arkin, I want you to drive both my daughters into town today. To Gordino’s restaurant on Morskaya.” Her blue eyes studied him assessingly, and he knew she was wondering whether she could trust him.

Both daughters. That was rare. The crippled one didn’t go out much even though he had removed the front passenger seat of the car to allow for her wheelchair to be stored there. It must be the influence of her dark-haired sister. The one who looked at him with eyes that were not easily fooled by a chauffeur’s uniform and a submissive lowering of his gaze.

Into town today,
she’d said. For one fraction of a second he almost let the wrong words slip out.
Today is not the day for your daughters to be in town. Keep your daughters at home.
But instead he nodded politely and opened the car door.

A
RKIN LISTENED TO EVERY WORD. HE ALWAYS DID. THAT was his job.

The Turicum was a magnificent monster of a vehicle. Imported from Geneva, all deep blue leather and fearsome brass fittings that he polished each day within an inch of their life. He sat up front in the driver’s seat, swathed in his maroon coat, and today the air had the bite of a tiger. To keep it at bay the daughters were bundled up with a weighty bearskin rug over their knees and fur hoods over their ears.

It will be cold for the marchers today. No bearskins. No fur hoods. Just the heat of anger in their bellies.

As he drove through the city, the streets of St. Petersburg slid past with their tall pastel buildings and people scurrying about their business, unwilling to linger in the freezing wind. It gave him satisfaction to see the cars and carriages jostling axles, the horse-drawn
drozhky
lumbering along, heedless of the klaxons that demanded room to pass. The more traffic, the better. The more chaos there would be.

He listened to their girlish chatter. Worthless words. An expression of delight as Madame Duclet’s fashionable dress shop came into view on Morskaya, a murmur of approval as they passed the renowned Zhirov establishment with its windows full of exotic china from the Orient and silverware from England. When he glanced around he saw Katya’s hands nestled in the warmth of the rug, but her eyes watched the outside world the way he would watch a circus.

“Today,” Valentina announced, “we shall do exactly as we please.”

“Yes,” Katya laughed, “we shall.”

Seldom had Arkin seen the younger one allowed out without her mother or Nurse Sonya as chaperone. Today she seemed to smell freedom. But suddenly he had to brake hard. The road was blocked by a line of policemen, dark and menacing. He brought the car to a halt, but the carriage in front swayed dangerously as the horse slammed against its shafts, unnerved by a noise from up ahead. It sounded like distant thunder. Except it wasn’t. He sensed his passengers listening to the sound carefully. It was more like the drag of waves on a pebble beach, harsh and grating. Coming closer.

All movement down Morskaya had ceased and pedestrians were backtracking along the pavement, casting nervous glances over their shoulders. Drivers found no room to maneuver around the police cordon but were wedged within the stationary traffic as tempers were roused and arguments flared.

“What is it, Arkin?” Valentina asked. She leaned forward, close to his shoulder, in an attempt to see what lay ahead. “What is causing the delay?”

“It’s the strikers,” he answered, careful not to alarm her. “They’re marching up Morskaya.”

“Strikers? They’re the ones causing such trouble in the factories, aren’t they? I’ve read about them in the papers.”

He made no comment.

“Prime Minister Stolypin has denounced them,” she added. “For trying to destroy Russia’s economy. They’ve managed to shut down our mines and stop our trains running.”

He still made no comment.

“I can’t see them,” Katya complained. “The police are in the way.”

“Look, there are the tops of their placards,” Valentina pointed out. He could hear the unease in her voice.

Wait. Just wait. You will see more than you want.

Ahead lay the backs of policemen, a solid wall of them from one side of the street to the other.

“Do you think there will be trouble?” Valentina was so close behind him he could feel her breath warm on his collar. He pictured her hands, white and nervous, and the hairs rising on the back of her neck. “Why are these men on strike, Arkin?”

Didnt she know? How could she not know?

“They are demanding a fair wage, Miss Valentina. The police are advancing on them now.”

Slowly, relentlessly. Advancing on them. He could make out batons in their hands. Or were they guns? The chanting of the marchers drew closer, and instantly a sense of real danger sparked in the street. It crackled in the air and people started to run, slipping on ice, skidding on snow. Arkin felt his pulse kick into life.

“Arkin.” It was Miss Valentina’s voice. “Get us out of here. Do whatever you have to, but get us away from here.”

“I can’t. We’re trapped in traffic.”

“Arkin,” Valentina ordered, “please drive us out. Now.”

He felt the muscle tighten at the corner of his jaw, and his maroon gloves curled around the rim of the steering wheel. “I cannot drive the car anywhere at the moment,” he said evenly, looking straight ahead through the windshield. “We are stuck.”

“Arkin, listen to me. I have seen what Bolsheviks can do. I’m not going to sit here with my sister like a helpless calf and wait for them to do it again.”

He heard it then, the whisper of fear. He swiveled around in his seat and looked her full in the face. For a moment their gaze held, until at last he looked down. “I understand, Miss Valentina.”

“Please do something.”

“There’s no need to be afraid of them,” he lied. “The marchers only want better pay and working conditions. No one is going to harm you. Or Miss Katya.”

She lifted her hands as if she would shake him. “Then take out the wheelchair,” she ordered. “I’ll push it up the street myself.”

“No need for that.”

Abruptly he swung down hard right on the steering. He shouldered the back of the carriage in front with the Turicum’s fender, forcing it out at an angle. Ahead of them a horse whinnied, but now the heavy car’s wheels were free and Arkin could maneuver it up onto the curb of the pavement and into the open.

“I’ll get you out of here.”

Five

W
HICH ONES SHALL WE CHOOSE?” “You can have the meringue, it’s your favorite.”

“What about the chocolate one?”

“No, you can’t have that,” Katya laughed. “I want it.”

With a delighted smile Katya circled her fork over the silver tiers of the cake stand in the middle of the table.