The White Russian (29 page)

Ruzsky could not answer. He shook his head, as if to try and deny what they both knew to be true. “Christ,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry, Sandro,” she said.

“No,” he muttered.

“I’ve hurt you… I’m sorry.”

Ruzsky did not move, attempting to lose himself in the rhythmic beat of the pistons. “Do you love him?” Ruzsky bit his lip. He had not wanted to ask the question and did not wish to have an answer.

Maria looked up. She wiped her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I’m very fond of your brother, Sandro.”

“Fond?”

“I’m moved by him; by the sadness in his heart, and by his devotion to you… I am nothing more than an adornment for him. I know that he will never really be in love with me…” She sighed. “I do not believe he can love-really love-another.”

“Why not?”

“Because he does not love himself.”

“I don’t understand,” Ruzsky said.

“Oh, Sandro…” She seemed to look right into the depths of his soul. “I think you understand better than anyone.”

Ruzsky waited for her to continue, but she did not.

They sat quietly together in the dark. From time to time, the moon disappeared behind a stand of pine trees, then burst out again, making brilliant the snow-covered fields, and washing her troubled face with light.

“Why him?” Ruzsky asked at length. “Of all people, why him?”

Maria’s head rocked from side to side. Her hands rested upon her lap. “I have told you already,” she said. “Because, at his best, he is like you.” She gave him a look of almost infinite sadness. “And because I can’t have you.”

They listened to the sound of the train and watched the changing patterns of light and shadow as it carved its way across the landscape. They were silent for a long time.

“What do you want of me?” he said.

“I don’t know anymore.”

He watched her face.

“It is too late for us,” she said. “But it doesn’t change the way I feel.”

Ruzsky swallowed hard. His throat was dry. “Should I go?”

“No.” Her voice was just a whisper.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Maria did not answer immediately. “Can we escape from the world, just for a moment? Just for a heartbeat?”

She turned and lay down on her bunk, her head on the pillow.

Ruzsky watched her face.

He waited.

One long, elegant arm stretched out toward him in the moonlight.

He watched, transfixed, marveling at the cool perfection of her fingertips, desperate for her touch.

He moved across the compartment and lay down beside her, his arm over her waist, his lips brushing the nape of her neck.

She lay quite still, her breast barely rising and falling as she breathed. At length, she turned toward him, her lips close to his, her eyes searching his own. “Are you nervous, Sandro?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

With her thumb and forefinger, she smoothed the lines on his temples, then gently caressed his cheek.

Her lips were parted, her breath warm.

“So many wasted years,” she said.

“Maria, I cannot-”

“Don’t punish me,” she said, placing a finger upon his lips. She brushed his eyes closed, and then smoothed his brow. “Just rest, Sandro. You need to rest.”

They lay side by side. The compartment was warm. He wished he could stay here forever.

M aria’s cheek was resting on his shoulder and he thought that she might be sleeping.

He listened to the sound of her breathing.

On the train journeys he had made with his family, he and Dmitri had always occupied the top bunks in the same compartment and lain awake deep into the night, listening to the train rattling south.

“I love to listen to the sound of the train at night,” she said. “The snow outside, the warmth within. It makes me feel safe.”

Ruzsky did not move. He didn’t want to do anything to break the spell.

“Do your parents still live in Yalta?” he asked.

“No.”

“Where did they move to?”

Maria did not answer.

“You said you were going to see your sister.”

“Yes.”

Ruzsky sensed he was skating on thin ice, but needed to continue. “Why don’t you ever talk about your past?” he asked.

“For the same reason that you don’t.”

“Are your parents in Petersburg?”

“No.”

“So you moved up alone?”

“They died a long time ago.”

Ruzsky hesitated. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Maria slipped away from him, onto her back. She gazed up at the ceiling.

“How old were you when they died?”

“Young. But old enough to remember how wonderful they were, which should make it better, but only makes it worse.”

“What-”

“It was an accident.”

Ruzsky watched the shadows crossing and recrossing her solemn face.

“Who looked after you?”

“My uncle.”

“Is he still in Yalta?”

“He’s dead now, too.”

“Were you fond of him?”

“Of course. He was a good man.”

Ruzsky sensed a reservation in her voice. “But it was still-”

“His wife never wanted us.”

“Is she alive?”

“Yes.”

“Will you go to see her?”

“No.”

“Where is your sister now?”

“In a sanatorium.”

“What happened to her?”

There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” Maria said. “I don’t know.”

Maria closed her eyes. He recognized the cold, brittle place within her all too well.

In the darkness, he could feel his love growing and deepening. He reached over and held her to him. For a moment, her fingers dug into his shoulders as she hugged him and then she let go.

“Did your-”

“Sandro. I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said. “Tell me about Petrovo. Tell me about the house there.”

“Why do you want to know about that?”

“Dmitri won’t talk about it. And yet it’s such an important part of you both.”

Ruzsky contemplated her request in silence. It was many years since he had consciously thought about Petrovo, and yet it was so intimately enmeshed in the fabric of his existence that he didn’t need to. The house, its atmosphere, its history-he carried it with him all the days of his life. “What do you want to know?”

“Paint me a picture.”

Ruzsky was silent again. What harm could it do, just to describe the house?

“It’s tall,” he said, “with a series of ornate pillars along its facade, but not too grand. Inside, it was a family home, with fireplaces as big as my father, and rugs, military portraits, and souvenirs gathered by the Ruzskys over the years, from campaigns in the Caucasus, the Far East, and Europe. There were sabers and lances and primitive, rusting muskets, and banners and giant silver plates. There was a shaded veranda all the way along the front of the house where we used to spend the summer evenings…”

Ruzsky stopped.

“Go on.”

“I-”

“Please go on, Sandro…”

Ruzsky twisted away from her. Recalling long-suppressed memories made him feel as vulnerable as he had as a child. “In the summer, my mother would sing. She had a lovely voice and we would join in, even my father; the sound carried across the valley. Sometimes, my father would go into the drawing room and play the piano. I would sit with my feet over the edge of the balcony, my toes brushing the top of the thick lilac bushes that surrounded the house.”

Ruzsky was silent for a minute, perhaps more.

“One year, when our time there usually came to an end, Father and Mother said we wouldn’t be returning to the house on Millionnaya Street until the end of the following summer. A whole year at Petrovo. I was about twelve, and for us boys, it brought unexpected joy. No school. Father hired a tutor, but it was still a magical time. Every day, after lunch, we would go out and play in the woods, in the snow. We made camps, staged battles, played on the ice, all the things that young boys do.”

Ruzsky ground to a halt. He had a vivid memory of them all skating on the lake, their breath billowing in the chill air as they chased each other around the island in the middle.

He could recall the sound of their laughter and the swish of the blades cutting across the ice.

“It’s as far as Dmitri gets.”

“What is?” Ruzsky asked.

“His story always stops in the same place. When Ilusha was still alive.”

Ruzsky closed his eyes. She caressed his brow and then placed a soft hand against his cheek. “It’s all right, Sandro,” she whispered. Then, “We should go back…”

“Go back where?”

“The house is one day’s ride from Mtsensk, isn’t that so? On the way to Yalta.”

Ruzsky swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, and sat there with his back to her.

“You cannot run away from it forever, Sandro.”

“I’m not running away from anything.”

“You both are.”

“And you’re the expert on the pair of us.”

Ruzsky immediately regretted the sharpness in his voice.

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“Why?”

“I told you.” Maria raised herself onto one elbow. “Because you need to go. And because I want to escape from the world. Just for a moment. It’s all changing, Sandro…” Maria lay back down. “You asked me why I’m going to Yalta. I want to see my sister. I want to make sure that she will be cared for, no matter what happens to me, or to Russia. But first, I want to escape.”

As he returned to the second-class section of the train, Ruzsky pulled the door shut and heard it being locked behind him. A soldier slouched in the corridor, his back to him, smoking a cigarette. As Ruzsky squeezed past, he saw that it was one of the men who had been in their compartment earlier. He hesitated for a moment, but the man quickly averted his eyes.

It took him a further twenty minutes to pick his way through the sleeping bodies that now lined the corridor. When he reached his own compartment, the blinds had been drawn against the moonlight.

Ruzsky waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He saw that one of the top bunks was empty and he put a foot on the ladder and swung himself up onto it.

He lay still. One of the men was snoring. He didn’t think it was Pavel.

Ruzsky turned on his side and tried to make out the shape of his friend.

“Where in hell have you been?” Pavel asked.

“I’m sorry.”

“These men haven’t seen a woman for months. I’ve been lucky to escape with my virtue intact.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Pavel grunted. “Some friend you are. After the revolution, I’m not sharing a cell with you.”

“Even revolutionaries need policemen, Pavel. You should remember that.”

Pavel grunted again.

“Are they asleep?” Ruzsky asked.

“You can hear them.”

“I think they’re still watching us.”

“Here on the train?”

“Yes.” Ruzsky turned over. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Ruzsky awoke late. By his watch, it was almost ten and there was no sign of Pavel in the compartment. His bunk had been folded away.

Only two of the soldiers were still there, smoking in silence with their legs resting on the seats. They didn’t acknowledge him.

Ruzsky swung around and stared out of the window. It was a poor day, snow driving across the wooded landscape reducing visibility to no more than twenty feet.

He rolled off his bed and landed with a thump by the door. He adjusted his coat, making a point of trying to establish eye contact with the soldiers. They both avoided it.

Ruzsky found Pavel at the far end of the carriage, looking out at the snow. There were fewer soldiers here now, so they had room to stand and converse in relative privacy.

“You should have woken me,” Ruzsky said.

“So that you could join me staring out of the window?”

Ruzsky pulled out his silver cigarette case. Pavel declined. Ruzsky took one and lit up.

“So, where did you get to?” Pavel asked.

Ruzsky sucked deeply on his cigarette, then blew the smoke against the glass. “Nothing interesting.”

“That’s for me to judge.”

“I saw someone getting onto the train,” Ruzsky said.

“Or knew she was going to be on it.”

Ruzsky raised an eyebrow.

“I could get quite insulted sometimes, by you treating me like a simpleton.”

Ruzsky looked at his friend apologetically. “Do you mind if I don’t tell you? Not yet, anyway?”

“I had a feeling this trip wasn’t entirely straightforward.”

“We’re going to Yalta because we need to.”

“A happy coincidence, then?”

Ruzsky didn’t answer. “There are two of them in our compartment.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Last night, I went right to the other end of the train and one of these goons followed me all the way. They’re not soldiers.”

Pavel’s eyes narrowed. “What did he think you were going to do, jump off the train?”

“Seriously.”

“They’re following us all the way to Yalta?”

“That’s what it’s beginning to look like.”

Pavel turned back to the window. “What do you want to do?”

“Nothing. I’m just telling you.”

Pavel glanced down the corridor. A group of soldiers was sitting on the floor, playing cards.

“I have a favor to ask you,” Ruzsky said quietly. “Beyond Moscow.”

“What is it?”

“My family home. Petrovo. It’s on the way-more or less.”

“I thought this was a murder investigation.” Pavel’s tone was not amused.

“It will take a day, that’s all.”

“Why now?”

Pavel looked at him and Ruzsky could see in his eyes that he knew the answer, just as Maria had understood his state of mind better than he had himself. Everyone was experiencing the unsettling effect of the winds of change. “I was thinking about Ella last night,” Pavel said.