The White Russian (45 page)

“I can care for myself.”

“When did you last eat?”

Ruzsky felt a dull ache in his stomach. When had he? He could not recall.

“Bathe and wash yourself, then come to the kitchen.”

“No.” Ruzsky shook his head. “No,” he repeated, in order to fortify himself. “Better not.”

But he felt awake enough now to weaken at the idea of bread and cheese, or even just bread. He thought he could smell fresh coffee.

“You look thinner,” she said.

“Impossible.”

Katya did not move. She turned her attention to his feet. “Your boots…”

Ruzsky gazed at them, as if noticing the holes for the first time. His socks were still damp and his toes numb from being repeatedly frozen and thawed.

Katya turned and strode purposefully away. She returned a few moments later clutching a pair of tall, black leather boots. “He has finished with these.”

“No.” Ruzsky shook his head.

“Don’t be so proud.” Katya stared at him. It was an admonition that carried a resonance beyond the question of boots, and, knowing that she had strayed too far, she averted her gaze. “A bath has been drawn for you. Come to the kitchen when you’re dressed,” she said, muttering, as she returned to the door. “You need someone to look after you.”

After she had gone, Ruzsky turned the boots upside down. Like all his father’s footwear, they had been beautifully fashioned by Meulenhoff, a German cobbler whose tiny premises had once been squeezed between much grander shops around the back of Gostiny Dvor. The man had been interned in the first days of the war and then sent home.

Ruzsky dropped the boots, yawned, and lay back down on the bed. On the other side of the mattress, he could still see the indentation that marked his brother’s presence alongside him in the night. He covered himself with the blankets and looked at the painted soldier at the end of the bed and the photograph of Ilusha on the shelf.

The house was quiet and the air still. He heard the tinkle of bells on a passing sleigh.

Ruzsky reached for Ilusha’s elephant. Robbed of human affection, it smelled only of mold and dust. He held it up, looking into its one eye. “I see you, Ilusha,” he said.

He hummed to himself. It was a child’s lullaby.

Ruzsky pushed himself upright. He checked his pocket watch. It was eleven o’clock.

He went down to the bathroom on the floor below, where a hot bath had indeed been drawn for him in the large tin tub. Katya or one of the other servants had placed some shaving tackle and pomades on the shelf beneath the mirror.

Ruzsky turned on the tap and felt the heat of the water. It was hardly more than a dribble, but it was a luxury he had not enjoyed since he’d last stayed in this house on the eve of his marriage.

He undressed. The room was dark and cluttered, its walls covered in military prints and photographs depicting generations of Ruzsky men attending the Corps des Pages and serving in the Guards. The line drawings and photographs closest to him were of his father’s younger brother, who had served in Her Majesty’s Life Guard Cuirassier Regiment-the Blue Cuirassiers-at Gatchina, before retiring permanently to Paris with his Belgian mistress.

The only nonmilitary photographs were of the family’s yacht, the Sinitsa, upon which they had once enjoyed holidays in the Gulf of Finland. Ruzsky examined it for a moment, before settling into the bath.

He felt uncomfortable enjoying the luxury that would once have been his by right.

About forty-five minutes later, freshly shaven and with a full stomach for the first time in days, Ruzsky emerged from the kitchen in the basement to find his father standing by the doorway, head bent in thought.

As the old man looked up, his expression softened. “Good morning, Sandro.”

“Good morning.” Ruzsky felt uncomfortably aware of the boots Katya had brought him.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.” Ruzsky nodded. “I’m sorry, I should have told you that-”

“Michael is out in the Summer Gardens. He’s with Ingrid.” The old man was staring at the rectangular pool of light stretching away from the drawing room window.

Ruzsky watched him. “Are you quite all right, Father?”

“Yes.” He turned to his son. “Of course, yes.”

“You look tired.”

The old man attempted a smile. “Yes.”

They heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobbles and stepped into the drawing room to watch them pass. It was another detachment of the Chevalier Guard in white and red dress uniforms and blue overcoats, stiff and upright in their saddles. Their mounts were finely groomed, the men’s uniforms spotless.

After they had gone, Ruzsky watched the snowflakes dancing in their wake.

A private sled passed. They heard the crack of the driver’s whip.

The old man was about to turn away when he caught sight of another group of soldiers, this time on foot. They wore khaki overcoats, rather than dress uniform, but their epaulettes identified them as members of the Izmailovsky Regiment, and their demeanor as reservists.

“Dmitri says there are few regulars left in the capital,” Ruzsky said.

His father did not answer. He kept his eyes upon the soldiers until they had disappeared from view.

The telephone trilled in the hall. Neither man moved, though their heads inclined toward it until the call was answered. They heard the quiet murmur of one of the servants and then a final tinkle of the bell as the receiver was replaced. The young man who had first welcomed Ruzsky to the house appeared in the doorway. He glanced at him momentarily, as if unsure as to whether he should impart information of any significance in his presence. “It was Mr. Vasilyev’s office, sir,” he told Ruzsky’s father. “He will be here any moment. He sends his apologies for the delay.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

After the servant had gone, the old man checked his pocket watch. He was frowning heavily. “Mr. Vasilyev will be late for his own entry to hell.”

Ruzsky was about to speak, but found he did not know how to begin. In forty years, he could not recall a conversation with his father upon matters of the world, let alone affairs of state. “I imagined you would be at the ministry,” Ruzsky said.

“Not today.”

“Does Mr. Vasilyev often come to see you here?”

“No.” An intense weariness seemed to suck the life from the old man’s face. “No,” he said again.

“What does he want?”

“That is the question, Sandro. What does this man want?” He sighed. “To protect the assets of the state, he says. That is the pass he would have us believe we have come to. To protect the wealth of the Tsar from the mob.” He shook his head.

“He tells you there will be trouble?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“On Friday?” Ruzsky asked.

His father checked his pocket watch again, then smiled. “Go and find your son.”

They stared at each other. The old man’s eyes sparkled momentarily with a warm affection.

“Last night, Father, I saw Vasilyev’s men-”

“Go and find your boy first.” The old man placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder. “He is so looking forward to seeing you.”

Ruzsky pulled on his overcoat and took the sheepskin hat from its pocket.

“It’s a little warmer today,” his father said. “You’ll not need that.”

Ruzsky thrust the hat back into his pocket. “I’d like to talk to you, Father. It’s just about-”

“Your case. I know. After this meeting. When you come back. There is much we should have talked about.”

“Yes.” Ruzsky opened the door, but hesitated on the threshold.

“You’ll come and stay whenever you want, won’t you, Sandro?” The old man’s eyes radiated warmth and sadness in equal measure.

“Yes, Father.”

“It is your home.”

“Yes.”

“You know that, don’t you? I mean, you’re a grown man, you have your own life, of course, I realize that, but this will always be your home, whenever you wish it to be.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“You could even…” He smiled, ignoring his son’s unspoken question. “But I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“Are you all right, Father?”

“Yes.” The old man stepped back, gesturing for Ruzsky to leave with an outstretched hand. “Please go to see him. He is waiting.”

Ruzsky returned his father’s hesitant grin and turned away. As he walked down Millionnaya Street, he could not contain the spring in his step.

Entering the Summer Gardens a few minutes later, Ruzsky glanced at the sign attached to the heavy iron railings. Dogs, Beggars, all Lower Ranks of the Army and Navy prohibited from entry.

Inside the railings, another group of soldiers in long greatcoats stood around a coal brazier. They were laughing and smoking-also forbidden in public for the lower ranks-and as Ruzsky passed them, he saw that they were drunk. Like those he had seen passing through Millionnaya Street earlier, they were dressed in khaki, but this group was from the Pavlovsky Regiment, whose barracks overlooked the Field of Mars. One had a crude tin drum in his hand, filled with illegal moonshine.

Ruzsky ignored them and wandered along the line of lime trees, scanning the gardens for a tall blond woman and a small, dark-haired boy. Behind him, the soldiers began humming the national anthem, “God Save the Tsar,” with heavy irony.

He wondered if they were taunting him in some way, but resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.

He stopped in the clearing, fringed by firs, known as Children’s Corner. The marble statues in the gardens were all enclosed by wooden boxes in winter, but the bronze of an old man sitting in a comfortable chair here was still exposed to the elements. The statue was surrounded by high wrought iron railings and Ruzsky stared through them, thinking of the old men in high valenki who used to build snow mountains here in winter and charge the children of the rich a few copecks to sled down.

Ruzsky heard a sound and swung around. Michael stood next to Ingrid, clutching the leather lead of one of his father’s dogs.

For a moment, they examined each other and then Ruzsky crossed the frozen ground as if it were the last act he would perform on earth, sweeping his boy up and clutching him with all his might. He pressed Michael’s face against his shoulder.

“Hello, Father.”

Ruzsky let Michael down gently and knelt before him. He touched his face, then his shoulders, as if checking that he was still in one piece. “Hello, my boy. Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

Ruzsky clasped his son’s face between cold palms. “Pleased to see me?”

Michael nodded. He pulled the great hunting dog closer and stroked its head. It was a gentle creature.

Ruzsky thought that his son was avoiding his eye. He glanced at Ingrid.

“You went to Yalta, didn’t you?” Michael asked.

“Yes.”

“Grandfather said he thought you would go to the house at Petrovo.”

“Why did Grandfather say that?”

“He said you would go to the house on the way. Is Petrovo far from here?”

“Quite far, yes.”

“It’s where Uncle Ilusha died.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you went there?”

“Part of the reason, yes.”

“Can we go there together?”

“One day.”

Ruzsky stood slowly. He put an arm around his son and glanced at Ingrid. Something in the way she was looking at him made him hold her eye. She rewarded him with a smile; a wry and amused gesture of undisguised pleasure.

Ruzsky studied her face. It sprung to life as her smile widened. “Mistress Ingrid,” he said.

“Master Sandro.”

“The winter treats you well?”

“Tolerably so.”

The group of soldiers behind them began to sing more loudly, their manner boorish and designed to provoke. Ruzsky began to lead his son away. The soldiers sang still louder.

“They are always in here now,” Ingrid said.

Ruzsky glanced over his shoulder. The men were smiling, pleased at the effect they had achieved.

When he turned back, Ruzsky saw the unease in Ingrid’s eyes.

“The servants say there will be a revolution,” Michael said.

Ruzsky did not answer. He and Ingrid exchanged glances once more.

“Why will there be a revolution?” Michael asked.

Ruzsky was about to utter something reassuring, but found he could not bring himself to lie. “The Tsar is not popular. He is blamed for the war.” The soldiers’ voices were dying away.

“If you are a policeman, is it your job to stop it?”

“No.”

“Will the revolutionaries attack the police?”

“No.” Ruzsky pulled his son closer. “Don’t worry. It will be all right.”

“Why will it be all right?”

“It just will.”

“The servants call the police shemishniki.”

“Well-”

“What do they mean by that?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“They say it is because they get two copecks for every man they arrest.”

Ruzsky looked into his son’s intelligent eyes. “That’s the secret police, Michael.”

“You’re not the secret police, are you, Father?”

“No.”

“You’re a detective and you investigate murders, isn’t that so?”

“It’s true.”

“But Uncle Dmitri says the rioters hate all policemen.”

“I’ll be fine, my boy.”

“I don’t want them to hurt you, Papa.”

“No one is going to hurt me.”

They had reached the edge of the Field of Mars. Michael was still clutching his father’s hand. “I’ll race you,” Ruzsky said, bending down, but his son shook his head. “I don’t want to run, Father.”

Ruzsky squeezed the boy’s hand. He turned toward Ingrid and looked into her vivid blue eyes. They seemed to offer warmth and support and uncomplicated affection, but were also tinged with sadness. He saw in them an echo of his own corrosive loneliness, which made him want to offer his unqualified friendship in return. “I’m sorry,” he said.