The White Russian (49 page)

“She plans to take him away,” she said quietly. “By the end of this week. Do you know that?”

For a moment, Ruzsky thought she was talking about Maria and Dmitri.

“Irina,” Ingrid went on. “And her Grand Duke.”

“Yes. To Nice.”

They were silent. Ruzsky finished his cigarette and went to find an ashtray in which to stub it out. Failing to locate one, he squashed it against the bottom of an enamel basin and threw it into a wooden bin.

As Ruzsky sat down again, Ingrid reached forward and put her hand on his. “I’m truly sorry, Sandro.”

Ruzsky gazed into her deep blue eyes. He did not know whether to withdraw his hand. “He was an extraordinary man,” she said.

“He was extremely fond of you.”

“And he adored you,” she responded.

Ruzsky withdrew his hand slowly. “We had our… difficulties.”

“But he was always so very proud of you. Of who you are. He could not conceal it.”

Despite himself, Ruzsky felt a flush of pleasure. “He concealed it for many years.”

“He talked about you almost constantly over the past few months. He could not hide his excitement at the prospect of your return.”

Ruzsky tried to imagine this. If Ingrid’s face had not radiated such sincerity, he’d have suspected her of humoring him. “He had changed. I failed to see it.” Ruzsky thought again of that last conversation in the drawing room. “I failed to respond,” he said.

“Don’t blame yourself. It is the last thing he would have wanted.”

They were silent. The great gaping void of his suicide hung between them. How could either of them know what he would have wanted, when they had not suspected the imminence of such a catastrophe?

“Did you see any sign?” Ruzsky whispered.

Ingrid shook her head.

“Was his behavior in any way out of the ordinary, these last few days?”

“He was subdued, quite gentle. But then, that is how I shall remember him.”

“Did you speak to him this morning?”

“I saw him in the hall after breakfast. I asked if he was not going to the ministry and he said, no, not today. I thought that was odd, in such times, but he did not appear to wish to converse, so I took Michael upstairs to the attic until we went to the Summer Gardens.” Ingrid tried to smile. “I think Michael hoped we would wake you. One of the servants had told him you were here.”

“And when you came down again?”

“The study door was ajar, and I could see a light on. I assumed he was at work. But, as you know, he did not like to be disturbed.”

“Had he received any callers the previous night?”

“No.”

“No telephone calls?”

“Several, but I did not answer them. Dmitri was dining at his mess; your father took his meal in the study. But he worked late. I needed a glass of water in the middle of the night-at one or two in the morning-and did not wish to trouble the servants, so I came to get it myself. When I passed his study, the light was still on.”

“You did not look in?”

Ingrid shook her head.

“He never made any comment about the work of the Ministry?”

“Never. Nor about the government, except in the most general terms, and then only to discuss the progress of the war.”

“And to Dmitri?”

“I… I do not believe so. It was Dmitri’s great frustration. He said they never talked about anything in depth, merely exchanged platitudes.”

Ruzsky wondered again where his brother was.

“Was there anything about the past few days that struck you as out of the ordinary? Any visitors? Any chance remark?”

Ingrid shook her head. “The city is tense, Sandro. It has affected us all. The servants… everyone.”

“And you saw signs of tension in my father?”

“He spoke of his concern.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked me at breakfast yesterday, or the day before, if I would like to consider going to Sweden, perhaps, or England, until things were calmer. Funds would be made available in London, he said, for as long a stay as I wished for.”

“And what did you reply?”

“I said that I wanted to stay with my husband at this difficult time. And to help look after Michael.”

“Had he suggested you go abroad before?”

“No.”

“Did he give any particular indication as to why he raised the matter then?”

“No. He said we should discuss it again, perhaps tomorrow.”

“Did he mention a deadline? Did he mention this weekend, for example, as a time that concerned him?”

“No.”

“Did he ever talk about Vasilyev with either you or Dmitri?”

“No.”

“Had you ever seen them together before that night at the ballet?”

“No.”

“Did Dmitri mention it? They made… odd companions.”

“Your father was a member of the government, Sandro. Even Dmitri understands that it requires one to deal with a wider circle than the Guards mess.”

Ruzsky took out a cigarette and tapped it against the silver case before putting it into his mouth and lighting it. He offered the case to Ingrid, but she declined.

“Will there be a revolution?” she asked.

“Few seem to doubt it.”

“When he is sober, Dmitri says many of the soldiers would relish killing their officers.”

“Not if they’re hanged for it.”

Ingrid leaned forward. “A German in Millionnaya Street,” she whispered. “I suppose I must fear the mob?”

“We should all fear the mob.”

“It is so long since I have seen someone smile. In the street, I mean.”

“They never have in the winter.”

It was an evasive response, and they both knew it. Ruzsky saw the fear in her eyes now. And he realized that she had long since stopped looking to Dmitri for protection.

Ruzsky stood. He failed to find either vodka or wine in the kitchen, so opened the hatch into the cellar. It was dark, but he was able, so long as he moved cautiously, to find his way. He located a bottle on the rack and picked it up.

Back in the kitchen he saw that it was French champagne. He looked at Ingrid. “It hardly seems appropriate, but…”

Ingrid watched as he went to get two glasses from the cupboard and opened the bottle. “I was never an expert on vintages,” he said. “Father started to explain, but gave up on me.”

“I’m glad you reached some kind of understanding, Sandro.”

Ruzsky sat down. He lifted his glass. “To the future.”

Ingrid raised her own and looked at him warily across its brim.

They drank. The temperature in the cellar had ensured that the champagne was chilled.

“Michael asked me tonight why your father had an accident.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said that I did not know, but that you would find out.”

Ruzsky contemplated his champagne for a moment, before downing it. He refilled both glasses.

“Would you ever leave the city, Sandro?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It is just that your father was someone whose opinion I trusted.”

“And his question frightened you?”

She looked at him, seeking reassurance. “Was that foolish?”

“No.”

“Does it frighten you, too?”

Ruzsky looked out of the low kitchen window to the darkness of the garden. “It is hard to turn your back,” he said.

“On a life,” she answered. “Of course.”

And on a love, he thought, though he did not say it.

Ingrid put her hand over his again. Ruzsky felt drunk. He realized he hadn’t eaten since that morning. It already seemed a lifetime away. He turned his palm upward, so that their fingers interlocked.

“We’ll be all right,” Ruzsky said, looking into her eyes.

“I hope so.”

Gently, Ingrid withdrew her hand. They drained their glasses slowly and in silence. Ingrid stood. “I… will see you tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Good night, Sandro.”

“I have a favor to ask,” he said. “I need a day, perhaps two. I need to know that Michael is going to be safe.”

“Just tell me what you wish me to do.”

“There is a man outside. I… I am being watched now. I cannot leave the house unless I know you have found somewhere safe.”

“Where do you wish us to go?”

“The Hôtel de l’Europe, perhaps. Anywhere but here. Not tonight, but in the morning. So far as I can tell, only one of them is following me, and he will not wish to risk losing sight of his target. If you hide some spare clothes beneath your coat and do not return, it will take them some time to locate you.”

“Of course, Sandro.”

Ingrid looked at him with sad, compassionate eyes.

“Good night,” he said.

Ruzsky did not watch her go, but he listened to her progress through the house.

He refilled his champagne glass and lit another cigarette.

Five minutes later, Ruzsky climbed the stairs from the kitchen. The desk lamp was still on in the study and he switched it off. He had intended not to linger, but that proved impossible. He sat down in his father’s chair. The air was still thick with the pungent aroma of the cleaning fluid he had used to scrub the rug clean.

He sat still.

He thought of his brother in the apartment off Sadovaya Ulitsa, and the comfort that she must offer.

He wondered what his father would do in his circumstances, and realized, with trepidation, that the answer lay in that small patch of scrubbed carpet. Though he had often fought against his father’s certainties, they were many times more attractive than the vacuum he was faced with now.

The house was quiet.

Ruzsky stood and moved through the shadows to the telephone in the hallway. He examined it for a moment, before picking up and dialing Maria’s number. Once again, the bell at the other end rang and rang, but there was no answer.

He replaced the receiver and headed upstairs. He halted on the landing outside his parents’ bedroom. On a small table beside their bed stood a vase of fresh yellow carnations.

Ruzsky walked through to his father’s dressing room and opened the cupboards to the rows and rows of suits, morning suits, full-dress uniforms, frock coats, mess jackets, and tunics. At the bottom of the cabinet was a line of field boots, handmade walking shoes, dress shoes, and dancing shoes three-deep. He took out one of his father’s dress uniforms and held it up to the moonlight. It had been made by Nordenshtrem, the country’s most prestigious military tailor.

He replaced the jacket, shut the cupboard, and moved to the window.

The sled still stood in the shadows.

Ruzsky looked up and down the street.

He stepped back again, returned to the landing, and made his way to the top of the house. He found sheets and blankets, checked that Michael was sleeping, bent down to kiss his soft head, and then lay down on the floor beside him.

The shouts at first appeared distant, but the sound of breaking glass in the street propelled Ruzsky from his sleep. Michael was sitting up in bed.

The shouts suddenly appeared much closer.

Ruzsky rolled onto his feet and put on his trousers. “It’s all right,” he told his son as he picked up his revolver.

He clambered down the stairs, checking again that there was ammunition in the chamber.

He reached the first floor and his father’s bedroom.

There was the sound of another window breaking.

Ruzsky looked out. “Jew lover!” one man shouted, though none of them could have seen him in the window.

There were about twenty of them in all, a ragtag collection of Black Hundred thugs. One or two carried banners emblazoned with images of the Tsar. Ruzsky could still see the Okhrana agent wrapped up in his sled, though he had moved fifty yards down the street so as not to be directly associated with the harassment. The road was darker; someone had knocked out the gas lamp.

“Jew lover!” they shouted again. Several of the group had rocks which they were throwing at the windows on the ground floor.

Ruzsky turned. He saw Michael in the doorway, his face pale. “What are they doing, Papa?” Ingrid was behind him.

“Stay here,” Ruzsky instructed. He walked down the last flight of stairs to the hall. He was dressed only in trousers and a loose, white shirt, the holster slung over his shoulder. He pulled out his revolver as another missile came crashing through the drawing room window. The valet, Peter, was in the hall. “Have you got a gun?” Ruzsky demanded.

“No, sir.”

“Do any of the servants?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Peter’s face betrayed no fear. “Did my father keep any other guns in the house?”

“Only his revolver, sir, so far as I’m aware.”

The shouting from the street was growing louder. Ruzsky saw his son’s face poking through the banisters. “If anything happens to me-if any of them are armed-then bolt the door behind me and call Pavel Miliutin, my deputy at the police department, on Petrograd 446. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ruzsky strode forward and pulled back the door. He charged down the steps, his sudden and violent appearance bringing a hush to the crowd.

He stopped and surveyed them. “You have ten seconds to leave the street, by official order, and I will shoot anyone who remains a moment longer.”

Ruzsky looked from face to face. He saw the hunger for violence there, the desire to be bold enough to storm through to the world of wealth and privilege that lay behind him. For a few seconds, he feared that his ultimatum would not be enough, and that he would have to carry out his threat. Then one turned away, and the others slowly followed.

He saw a curtain twitching in the house opposite, but none of the neighbors-friends and colleagues of his father’s for many years-had come to offer any help.

T he following morning, Ruzsky watched Ingrid and Michael go. He had helped conceal a few spare clothes inside Ingrid’s coat, and now, from the window of his father’s bedroom, he kept his eye upon their receding figures until they disappeared at the end of the street.