The White Russian (21 page)

“Yes. You gave me a fright.”

“Who did you think I was?”

The stage door banged shut and two men hurried toward them. Ruzsky recognized one as the ballet master with whom he’d crossed swords the previous day. “You’ll catch your death of cold,” he told her, in French.

“Ça ne fait rien,” she responded.

“C’est qui?”

“Un ami.”

The man took a pace closer and eyed Ruzsky. “We have something to eat and some vodka at home.” He pointed down the canal, in the opposite direction. “Just there, number 109.”

“Je suis fatiguée,” Maria said.

Ruzsky recognized the man now as the legendary Fokine.

“You’re going home?” he asked Maria.

“Yes.”

Fokine smiled. “Well, be good.”

He turned around and, with his companion, walked briskly away. Ruzsky felt his face reddening.

They turned and began to walk in the direction of the St. Nicholas Cathedral. “What did you think?”

“Of Fokine?”

“Of tonight.”

“Oh, it was good.”

“Good?” She laughed, kicking fresh powder up around her. Her mood was suddenly much lighter. “Good, Sandro?”

“All right, very good.”

“Very good?” She had walked a few paces ahead and faced him now, laughing. She scooped the snow up into his face. “Very good?”

“Astounding.”

“Astounding?”

“You’re Russia ’s finest prima ballerina, what can I say?”

“One of Russia ’s finest.”

“Such modesty…”

“You were bowled over by the scale and ambition of the choreography, or the physical perfection of the dancers. You-”

“All of the above.”

“I wager you don’t even like the ballet.”

“On the contrary.”

“Don’t you mean au contraire?”

“What’s so funny?”

“I bet you were asleep.”

He grinned. “If only I had been.”

“It was that boring?”

“Tedious beyond words.”

They were beside the cathedral now, its golden domes towering above them.

“My father used to take me to the ballet,” Ruzsky said quietly.

“Now there is a story.”

“Mmm…”

Maria looked into his eyes. The snow fluttered slowly down between them, big flakes melting as they touched her cheeks. His feet were cold, but he had no wish to hurry.

He turned his face toward the sky.

Maria began to walk again, half turning to examine her footprints in the snow. “You went with your father, alone? Just you and him?”

“Yes.”

“What about your brothers?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he thought they were too young.”

They crossed another bend in the Griboedov Canal and walked past the covered market. Ruzsky glimpsed figures huddled inside its entrance, seeking shelter. “Poor devils,” Maria whispered.

Ruzsky took a few more paces. “Do you know Vasilyev?”

“Of course. Of him, anyway.”

“You don’t know him personally?”

She frowned. “No. Should I?”

“I just saw him leaving the theater by the stage door. I wondered if you had known him from Yalta?”

“He’s an admirer of a colleague,” she said. “Poor girl.”

Maria’s apartment was on the top floor of a faded yellow building just beyond the Nicholas market. It was not far from where she had lived four years ago.

Maria did not ask him to come up, but nor did she turn to say goodbye at its entrance.

They climbed the stairs slowly. Ruzsky watched as she found her key and placed it in the lock. He had to resist the temptation to reach forward and brush the snow from her hair.

They stepped inside. Maria turned on a lamp by the door.

Ruzsky’s throat was dry.

She led him down a narrow corridor to the drawing room, their leather boots noisy on the wooden floorboards. He could hear the water squelching from the holes in his own.

Maria lit a candle above her writing desk, slipped off her coat, and threw it across the end of a chaise longue.

She wore a white dress, and he caught a glimpse of stocking above her boots. On the wall beside her was a painting of the bay at Yalta, at sunset.

“Are you still planning to go home?” Ruzsky asked, glancing at the picture.

“Tomorrow night.”

“It will be warmer.”

Maria shrugged.

“It was a wonderful place for a holiday,” Ruzsky said.

“Then come again. I’ll show you around.”

Ruzsky looked at her. “One day, I’d like that.”

“One day, I would too.”

“It’s a long way. Perhaps more than two days with the railways in the state they are.”

She did not answer.

Ruzsky cleared his throat. “How did you get a ticket? They say the khvost at the railway bureau is five-deep.”

“I have a friend at the Ministry of War.”

Ruzsky could not stop himself wondering what kind of friend.

“Would you like some vodka?” she asked.

“No. Thank you, no.”

“Whiskey? I have some bourbon in the dresser.”

Ruzsky shook his head, then changed his mind. “I’d love one.”

Maria shook out her long dark hair. It was a simple gesture that still had a devastating effect on him. She gathered it again at the nape of her neck as she went to the dresser and picked up the single glass and what was left of the bottle of American whiskey.

Ruzsky knew few people who drank bourbon. It was Dmitri’s favorite, but hard to come by these days, he imagined, even in Petersburg.

Maria handed him the glass. “I’ll make us some tea also.”

“I should go,” he said.

“If you wish…”

He didn’t move. They looked at each other for a few moments before she walked down to the kitchen.

Ruzsky sat on the chaise longue between the bookcase and the fireplace, his heart racing again. He looked about him. On the wall opposite was a framed poster, in dark red, advertising her first performance as a prima ballerina at the Mariinskiy Theatre, in Swan Lake. The year was 1911.

Ruzsky stood again, walked to the window, and looked down at the street below. It was deserted but for a sled standing by the iron railings, its driver hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm.

Ruzsky turned. The fire had been laid and he reached into his pocket for some matches and stepped forward to light it. It caught quickly and he sat back on the rug, watching the flames. He didn’t hear her return.

“I’ve been hoarding fuel,” she said. “They say the bakeries don’t have enough to keep their ovens working.”

Maria put down a silver tray and unloaded its contents: a silver teapot, milk jug, and sugar pot, and two china cups and saucers. Ruzsky watched her pour the tea through a strainer.

Maria returned to the kitchen once more and brought back a plate of English biscuits. He took one, then sipped his bourbon.

“How do you survive, Sandro?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said your father had cut you off without a ruble, and I don’t get the impression much has changed.”

“I have my salary.”

Maria raised her eyebrows. “You’re a Ruzsky.”

“So I survive. Like others do.”

“By not eating. You look thinner. It doesn’t suit you.”

He ignored her. Maria looked at him seriously. “You should leave Petersburg.”

“I’ve done that. Tobolsk was not an improvement.”

“I’m serious. You may see yourself as the guardian of justice, but for all that, you are a policeman.”

“I’m a detective.”

“You expect the mob to care?”

Ruzsky remembered what Dmitri had said, and the hostile faces outside the bakery. He leaned back against the chaise longue. She was looking at him, as if in a trance, her mind somewhere else. “You know what really saddens me?” he said. “The way everyone assumes change is going to make things better.”

“You have changed your tune.”

“You were the radical,” he said.

“Well, everyone is a radical now.”

Ruzsky stared into the fire.

“So, what of the two bodies you found on the ice? The girls were asking.”

Ruzsky looked at her. He liked the idea that they had been talking about him. He wondered if it was true that Maria had kept a photograph of him with her during his exile.

“Still a mystery,” he said.

“I like mysteries.”

“We could swap.”

“Sandro the ballet dancer? I’m not sure.”

“I’d be perfect. Apart from the boots.” He raised one foot. “No. Perhaps you’re right.” Ruzsky took another sip of the bourbon. His natural instinct was not to talk about the case, but he did not want to repeat the mistake he had made with Irina. If need be, he would force himself to communicate. “The girl was from Yalta, as a matter of fact. Ella Kovyil. Ever heard of her?”

She smiled and shook her head. “ Yalta is small, but not that small…”

“No, well-”

“What was she doing here?”

“Ella was an imperial nanny.”

Maria tilted her head in surprise. “An imperial nanny?”

“Yes.”

“Why was she killed?”

“We don’t know.”

“A lovers’ quarrel?”

Ruzsky shrugged.

“Who was the other one?”

Ruzsky hesitated. “An American.”

“What was he doing in Petersburg?”

“We don’t know.”

“So you don’t know much, really.”

Maria glanced at the clock and the smile instantly left her face. She hesitated for a moment and then stood. It dawned on him that he was expected to leave. He felt suddenly disoriented.

He stood opposite her, staring into her big, dark eyes. “I’m sorry, Sandro,” she said softly. “It’s just… I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

But her eyes told him everything he needed to know. Her loneliness was the mirror of his own, and her apology was for the opportunity they had lost.

Ruzsky turned and walked slowly out into the corridor.

“Sandro?” She was at the door. “Thank you, for coming tonight.”

They looked at each other for a moment more and then Maria closed the door.

Ruzsky stood, rooted to the spot.

He forced himself to turn and walk down the stairs.

Ruzsky took a few paces down the street outside, then stopped. He looked up and saw her face in the window.

He set his head down and began to move away. It was a moment before he recognized the figure hurrying down the snowy street toward him, his face flushed with alcohol and expectation.

Ruzsky could hear his brother’s voice in his head: Actually, I’ve acquired another little asset.

He turned on his heel and slipped into the shadow of a doorwell.

He watched every jaunty, carefree step his brother took.

Ruzsky waited, listening to the sound of Dmitri pounding up Maria’s stairwell. It had stopped snowing and the night was uncannily still, the footsteps echoing like rifle shots.

He crossed to the far side of the street and looked up at her window. Just for a moment, he caught a glimpse of both of them before Maria unfolded the shutters and blocked out the night.

Ruzsky did not move, his eyes fixed upon the darkened window above.

In his barren room a short time later, Ruzsky tried to sleep, but could not. He tossed and turned until he could stand it no more. He stood to dispel the images and paced around the silent room, turning to the window and the deserted, snow-covered street for solace, or at least distraction. He heard a dog bark again.

Ruzsky placed the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the window and waited until they grew numb.

He walked to his suitcase and pulled out his last bottle of vodka. There was no trace in the apartment of the tramp he had rescued this morning, except a lingering smell of decay.

Ruzsky upended the bottle. He gulped down the harsh liquid within.

Oblivion came quickly. His head swam, but even the fire of the vodka in his belly could not extinguish his fury. He raised the almost empty bottle above his head and smashed it against the edge of the dresser next to the door, slashing the palm of his hand.

He looked at the blood oozing from his skin, but could feel nothing. He staggered toward his bunk and fell, face first, out cold.

But if Ruzsky achieved sleep, peace eluded him. He found himself returning to the lake at Petrovo, the images that assaulted him stark against a clear, blue sky. He could see the ice cracking and feel the freezing water and then he was down-plunging back into the darkness, his arms flailing as he sought Ilusha’s outstretched hand.

He could hear the dull swish of his movements in the water and the sound of the bubbles ascending as the air escaped from his lungs. He could see, through the shimmering surface, his father’s long hand stretched out toward him.

And then he had turned away and was flailing in the darkness once more.

Ruzsky kicked and swam, down and down. But all that touched his grasping fingers were the weeds and all that he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

Ruzsky closed his eyes and began to shout, the pain searing his soul.

He looked up. He could see the light slicing through the surface and his father’s hand pawing at the water. He felt the lake wrapping him in its icy embrace.

He could no longer summon the will to resist. He slipped farther and farther away, the hand that trembled on the surface receding. Until at last, he was enveloped in water the color of night, and with it, a kind of peace.

The banging had risen to a crescendo in his dream long before it woke him. Ruzsky had been curled up beneath his blankets like a fetus, and only reluctantly stuck his head out into the night. The gash in his hand was painful, his throat was dry, and his head pounded like a locomotive. The empty bottle of vodka beside him shimmered in the moonlight.