The Lost Souls of Angelkov (50 page)

Standing behind Konstantin’s desk, she finds Yakovlev annoying with his endless fiddling with his moustache and the spastic blinking of his right eye. He has his nostrils stuffed with cloves. As he greets her, he apologizes, saying he has a head cold and the cloves alleviate the clogged sensation.

Yakovlev studies her face. His breeding does not permit him to inquire about her injuries, but he does ask after Mikhail. “Your son … there is still no word?”

Antonina shakes her head.

“And the count? How is his health?”

“He’s taken a turn for the worse.”

Yakovlev makes a sound of sympathy, but begins to spread his papers over Konstantin’s desk. “Madam,” he says, looking across the desk at her. “The situation is very grave indeed.” His voice is nasal because of the cloves in his nose.

For a horrible moment, Antonina has to fight an almost hysterical laughter. The doctor has told her, only hours earlier, to prepare for difficulties. Now the lawyer is telling her the situation is very grave. Under what conditions do these men suppose she’s been living for the last months? She covers her trembling, involuntary smile, turning away.

“Are you all right, countess?”

In the next moment, she looks back at him, composed.
She sits in Konstantin’s chair, nodding to indicate he should sit as well. “Yes. Tell me about the situation,” she says, refusing to give in to alarm. Yakovlev’s idea of gravity may be different than hers.

“For the last few years, your husband has been rather remiss in handling his finances,” Yakovlev says. “Specifically, he’s incurred debt and neglected to pay the estate taxes. Although I spoke to him on both matters frequently, as I know your steward also did, he chose to ignore our advice. There is a great amount owed, countess.”

“I see. We owe the government taxes. I must pay them, then. What resources does the count have?”

Yakovlev frowns, leaning forward. “Resources? What do you mean, my dear lady?”

Antonina feels something flutter against her ribs. “I mean, Attorney Yakovlev, from where shall I take the money necessary to pay the government what they—you”—she nods at the papers between them—“say I owe?”

Yakovlev plays with the waxed ends of his moustache. Antonina sees that one side is thicker than the other.

“But Countess Mitlovskiya,” the man continues, and Antonina knows what he will say before he says it. She grips her hands in her lap, where Yakovlev can’t see them behind the desk. “There are no resources. There is nothing but what you have here in the house. The count has been selling his businesses for the last few years, just to keep Angelkov afloat.” He leans back again.

Antonina’s eyes go to the bureau-bookcase—a lovely, hundred-year-old piece Konstantin inherited from his father. It has a flap front that becomes a writing table. In the locked bottom drawer sits Konstantin’s padlocked box, which had
once contained piles and piles of rubles. It is now empty, as is the smaller safe in his bedroom.

She swallows. “I knew, of course, that he shut down the distillery. Other than that, my husband did not keep me informed about business matters. But the government … if one can’t pay the taxes—and certainly I’m in a category with many other landowners,” she adds, remembering Grisha’s words, “—if I can’t pay the taxes, what can the government do about it?”

Yakovlev’s stomach grumbles, and Antonina knows she’s remiss in not offering him a meal or even tea after his ride from Pskov. But she wants him to give her the facts and then leave. This is not a social call.

Yakovlev clears his throat. “For all of those deeply in debt, as is the case with Angelkov, the government will take ownership. Or …” He stops.

“Take ownership? I could lose Angelkov?” She’s shocked by Yakovlev’s casual pronouncement. His silence is the answer. Finally she says, “Or? You said ‘or’—there is another possibility, Attorney Yakovlev?”

“You could sell off the land not owed to your former serfs. Sell your livestock, furniture, anything that you can, in order to raise the funds to give a deposit. If the government sees that you are attempting to pay your debt, there is the hope they will be lenient, and allow you to stay on your land. You must be able to meet a minimal sum each year. I would suggest you begin some form of payment immediately—at least by the start of next month.”

“You’re suggesting my neighbours would buy what’s left of my land?” She thinks for a moment. “What
is
left of my land?”

Yakovlev nods. “It’s calculated on the number of souls your husband owned. In this case, a great many—thousands. So once the land is divided into
mirs
, there would be enough for a small harvest to support you, if you could get your unpaid servants to work it, and perhaps another fifteen versts of forest. That’s all. It’s a difficult time for everyone, Countess Mitlovskiya,” he finishes, and Antonina knows her distress is visible on her face, in her voice.

They sit in silence for a long moment. Outside, one of the dogs barks, but is silenced by a man’s shout.

“Do you know … have any of the other landowners been threatened?” she asks, Felya’s grisly image still so vivid.

Yakovlev’s eyebrows rise. “There is definitely unrest, countess, unrest and dissension in many areas. Things will settle when the former serfs understand that protests will get them nowhere, when they remember they should be grateful to God and the Tsar for the great blessings bestowed on them.”

Antonina thinks of the misery of Tushinsk. “Blessings?”

“Their freedom, of course. There has been too much bloodshed for decades, starting with the Decembrists in ’25. Now the serfs have freedom, yet they act like ungrateful children.” He shakes his head. “They depended on their little fathers—the landowners—for everything, doing nothing but complaining. Then we give them freedom, and what do we have? More discontent.” He sighs, pressing his fingers against his middle, and Antonina hears his stomach groan again.

She stands, extending her hand. “Thank you, Attorney Yakovlev. We all have much to do now.” A shadow of disappointment crosses the man’s face as he realizes he won’t be fed.

He bows over her hand. Antonina grimaces at the eczema on his scalp. “I will leave my bill,” he says, looking up. “Although, in order not to cause you any further time, you may choose to …”—he hesitates, searching for the right phrase—“save us both the bother of me having to return for the payment. You understand.” He is still holding her hand.

“I do,” she says, pulling her hand away. “But please don’t leave without a meal. I’m afraid I can’t join you, but I’ll have the table set up for you in the smaller dining room. And I’m certain there are some wonderful vintage wines in the cellar. You might enjoy a glass with your meal, and … would you honour me by taking two—perhaps three—as a small gift?”

Antonina isn’t fooling him, but Yakovlev is willing to play the game. He bows again. “It would indeed be my honour, countess,” he says.

“I’ll have some brought up immediately,” she adds, and he smiles.

It’s more than many of his clients can offer these days.

Antonina summons Lyosha as soon as Yakovlev is settled in the dining room, eating boiled beetroot salad with onions and sunflower oil with undisguised pleasure. A nice piece of fish sits in a chafing dish in front of him.

The young man comes into the study, his hat in his hand. He has removed his boots and someone has given him a pair of felt slippers to wear in the house. They’re too small and his toes push against the soft fabric.

“Can you read and write, Lyosha?” She wants him to say no.

“Yes, madam.”

“Then please, sit here,” she says, gesturing at the desk,
where there is paper, a pen and an inkwell. “I want you to write something for me,” she says, keeping her voice noncommittal but firm.

Lyosha’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and sits down. When he’s dipped the pen into the ink and has it poised over the paper, he looks up at Antonina.

“What shall I write, Countess Mitlovskiya?” Something in his expression reminds Antonina of the little boy with the wet cough, hiding behind his mother’s skirt so long ago. Surely he couldn’t have been part of such brutality.

“Let joyous angels receive him.”

“Yes, countess,” he says, and the pen moves across the paper quickly.

She watches over his shoulder. His letters are firm and well formed; he writes far more quickly than she would have expected. The
h
is perfect. Antonina closes her eyes, relieved. She exhales and puts her hand on Lyosha’s shoulder. “You write very well. Lilya taught you?”

He looks up at her. “No, countess.”

“Who, then?” Antonina asks, surprised.

“Grisha, the year I came to the stables.”

“Why did he teach you?”

Finally Lyosha smiles. “He said I showed promise, and that someday I might be able to move out of the stables. But Lilya taught Soso.”

“Soso?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Antonina says after a moment. “You may leave now.”

Lyosha stands and bows from the waist, and then turns and leaves, walking awkwardly in the tight slippers.

That evening, alone in the study, Antonina sits at Konstantin’s desk and thinks of Soso. She’d learned from Lilya that he had left Angelkov after the kidnapping. Many of the servants had gone; why should Soso’s disappearance have struck her as strange?

Exhausted, she shuts her eyes and recalls her conversation with Yakovlev. Could it be possible that she might lose Angelkov? Where would they go, she and Konstantin—if Konstantin lives? And if he doesn’t? She sees herself a widow with nothing. Abruptly, she opens her eyes. “How would I survive?” she speaks aloud.

The thought of being a
prizhivalet
—a noble down on his or her luck who begs to move in with a wealthy neighbour or distant relative—is despicable to her. Those with riches of their own don’t want to be seen as miserly, and almost always provide a permanent room for the uninvited guest. But life in someone else’s home makes the displaced noble’s position vulnerable, and humiliating.
Prizhivalet
. The word itself is undignified, indicating something hanging on to something else, little better than a parasite.

She thinks of her brother Marik. They haven’t spoken in years, but the long-ago fight was between him and Konstantin. She could ask him for money, but in the next instant she realizes it’s very unlikely that Marik would pay huge sums—which he might not even have—to help keep her estate running.

No. If she came to him as a penniless widow—if that’s what it comes to—he would offer her a place to live. She imagines herself growing old in his home, the widowed sister, her hair fading and her skin thinning, the fine tracery
of lines around her eyes deepening. As a form of repayment she would help with his children, perhaps giving them music lessons. She thinks of Marik’s wife, pleasant enough when she last saw her. But how long would her patience last with another woman—her sister-in-law—living with them for the rest of their lives?

Not yet, she persuades herself. I’m not ready for that yet. I will not give up Angelkov. Not until it is absolutely necessary. “Not yet,” she says aloud.

And what of Mikhail? What if she’s forced to leave this place while he’s still missing? What if he eventually finds his way back to Angelkov but she isn’t here?

She can’t think about it—any of it. She crosses to the cabinet holding bottles and glasses as there’s a knock on the door.

“Enter,” she calls, still beside the cabinet.

It’s Grisha. He looks at her from the doorway before stepping in. “There is no one to answer the door, madam. I came through the back servants’ entrance.”

“Please come in, Grisha.” She feels uncomfortable saying his name. In the private world of the study, it feels too intimate.

He walks towards her, but stops a few feet away.

“What is it you come to see me about, Grisha?” she asks, forcing herself to say his name again.

“First of all, I wanted to ask after the count.”

“It’s pneumonia. The doctor is not hopeful.”

He nods respectfully. Neither of them has anything more to say about Konstantin. “Your meeting with the lawyer—did you get the answers you seek?”