A Russian Sister

by Caroline Adderson

  Of course he did. They all attended the same arty parties. Lidia Iavorskaya’s parties. Isaac might be able to tell her what Ignati had arranged for Lika. Strangely, though, at Masha’s question, he grew evasive about Ignati, though he’d mentioned him first. He brushed at one shoulder of his coat.

  “I see him around.”

  “And?”

  He faced her. “What?”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “I think he has two wives. Driver, it’s the turquoise house on the right.”

  “Two?”

  He turned back to Masha. “He divorced the first. It’s why he’s always broke and starting up these agenting schemes. He’s got to pay for them both. Stop at the gate. Oh, he’s great fun at a party. He makes the party, especially with Lika at the piano. Does he have these musical connections he claims? Will she become a famous singer? I doubt it. The Paris wife—number two—is calling him home, but he’s not finished with Lika, so he’s bringing her along.”

  Already pressed against the seat, Masha had nowhere further to recoil to. “What are you saying? His wife’s in Paris? I thought they were separated.”

  “Naturally he’d tell you that,” Isaac said.

  “Does Lika know she’s there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The carriage stopped. Isaac paid and climbed down.

  Masha said, “Thank God she’s not going on her own. Some other singer’s going with her.”

  Isaac offered his arm to Masha, who needed it.

  “Yes, she’s going with that little opera singer, Varvara, isn’t she? I see them together. Double the fun. It’s all the rage.” He opened a lacy iron gate in the wall and waved her in. “Yes, Lika ran from the bear to the wolf. Do you remember how I lost my head over her and wanted to shoot myself? I don’t know why she didn’t pick me. I’m by far the better man.”

  The grounds surrounding the mansion were still snow-crusted. Against it, the bare bark of the shrubbery looked red. Sparrows quadrilled along the path. That stupid, stupid girl, Masha thought, her approach sending the birds into the air. Unfortunate popped into her head again. Now she would have to go see Lika. She couldn’t possibly know about the wife.

  Masha barely looked at the grand house, had not even taken in Isaac’s previous comment. Now he pointed out the closer wing, where on the second storey three large arched windows faced south.

  “That’s the studio. Damn it, I’m feeling it again, this thing that starts with an a.” Pressing his heart, he stared up with what seemed a rapturous expression. “It’s from the excitement. I can’t wait for you to see it.”

  “Is it pain?” Masha asked.

  “Yes!”

  “Perhaps I should talk to—”

  “The doctor whose name starts with an A? No thank you. There. It’s passed. Just like that.” With a laugh, he walked on. “Wait till you see it.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Isaac?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  They came to a set of French doors at the end of the wing. Isaac entered without knocking, causing a bell to sound. A liveried manservant appeared and bowed. Isaac raised a hand to him and in the same gesture directed Masha to a curved staircase. Isaac’s patron was as rich as Alexei Suvorin. Even the carpets told her that.

  They made their way to the studio, which was at the top of the stairs. Breathless from the climb, Isaac threw open the doors, revealing a high-ceilinged room with generous light.

  “I don’t even pay for it,” he told her.

  There were a half-dozen large paintings on easels around the room and more sketches pinned to the walls, yet she knew without asking which painting he wanted her to see. It swallowed her. A little church overlooking a lake, a clutch of restless trees behind it, tilted crosses in the cemetery. The prowed shapes of the bluff and lake pushed her forward to the layered drama of the sky. Isaac rarely painted figures, offered instead sky, land, water and the deeper meaning of their configurations. The only people here were dead. A painter didn’t need people, not the way a writer did.

  Standing there, smelling the paint, breathing in Isaac’s work, she finally understood their conflict. To Isaac, Lika was a pretty, vivacious girl, one of many to threaten suicide over; to Antosha, she was a subject. Unmistakable traces of her turned up in story after story. And that night at Melikhovo, when Lika and Ignati played their duet, Antosha had left the room directly afterward and wrote “Angel Serenade” into “The Black Monk.” He put in the red moon too. It was the strangest thing he’d ever written.

  “I knew you’d see it,” Isaac said.

  She turned to him. “What do you see?”

  “Me?” Surprised to have the question turned back on himself, he exploded with the answer. “I see my soul. The thing that fares so poorly here—” He waved long fingers, taking in the room, but meaning the world. “It lives fully there, only there. That’s why I suffer. I hope you’re suffering, Masha. Are you? Because the artist must. It’s the only way.”

  She burst into tears without knowing why, except that when she looked at the painting again, the black mass of cloud became that rebuking flock that had terrified him at Melikhovo, and she—she was an empty church. Chaste and alone on the bluff staring out at the cold flat lake of her life.

  Isaac pulled her to him. “Good! This is good! Cry.” He rocked her. “I wanted to marry you once. Did I ever tell you that?”

  Embarrassment caused her to press harder into him. “Yes.”

  “You were just a girl. How old are you now?”

  She sniffed. “Thirty.”

  “Thirty! Thirty is a fine age. Women get better and better. You’re plump now too.”

  He lifted her chin and kissed her. The scent on his beard was decidedly female. Masha’s whole body flooded with heat. The dark cloud moved closer, and she heard those complicated twitterings. So hot in her coat, she let him undo the top button to get at her neck. I am burning. Should she take it off? Come and help me to burn it out. He kissed her collarbones, her eyes, and she felt her own avid response. But as his long fingers tugged at her next button, she took fright and pulled away.

  “I was on my way to say goodbye to Lika.”

  He looked hopefully down at her. “You’ll come back, though? My quarters are just below.”

  “What? Tonight?” she asked.

  “Yes. Come tonight. Tomorrow I really have to leave town. Give Lika my blessing. I’d like to kiss you again. May I? I think I’m falling in love again.”

  He was mad, of course, holding her face, tonguing her relentlessly. She’d mocked Lika for claiming transmutation, but now Masha pressed against his body to bring it on herself. Hardness pressed back. How she yearned for love. She’d been tying her laces so hard, cinching in her need.

  When Isaac pulled back a second time, it seemed as though he’d drawn out a pin and was holding it between his teeth.

  SHE WANTED TO TELL LIKA. WANTED TO MAKE LIGHT of Isaac’s kisses to a friend, to jokingly confide, so she could sift through her feelings and know if she would go back. She climbed the cat-reeking stairs. She would go back. Why shouldn’t she, too, hurl herself into disaster?

  Lika answered and almost knocked Masha over in her embrace. Over her shoulder, Masha saw Granny coming down the hall, her wobbly face streaked where the powder had washed off.

  “Who is it? Varvara?”

  “Just ignore her,” Lika whispered. She turned to face Granny bearing down on them. “It’s Masha.”

  The old woman grabbed Masha’s hand. “Please stop her. I’ve telegrammed her mother, but she can’t come.”

  “Granny, I’m going away to sing. When we’re settled, I’ll send for you.”

  Ignoring Lika, Granny told Masha, “She’s running off with that man. She’s out all night with him. She doesn’t get home till dawn.”

  “Granny, you’re embarrassing me.”

  The old woman swung around and slapped Lika, and kept on slapping while Lika raised her arms to protect
herself from the whirl of hands.

  “Pig!” Granny screamed, and Lika broke free and ran down the hall. “A pig will find mud anywhere! Even in Paris!”

  Lika’s door slammed. Granny turned to Masha, who was backing away in alarm. “How did this happen? How? Talk to her. Please.”

  She helped Masha out of her coat. She wasn’t accusing. Perhaps she’d forgotten the favour she’d asked.

  “I did everything to keep her safe. In Petersburg I slept in her room. Her mother was always having parties. Showing her off to guests. Some of them . . .” She trailed Masha to Lika’s room. “I didn’t like the way they looked at her. Please make her stay.”

  “I’ll talk to her.” Masha knocked. “It’s me.”

  The door opened, and Lika pulled her inside, leaving poor Granny in the hall blotting her devastation on her sleeve. Clothes were spread all over, the trunk half-filled with sheet music. Lika sank down on the bed, hair in disarray from Granny’s assault.

  “She sent a telegram to Mama.” She stared at the floor. “Mama will be happy. Paris is even farther than Moscow.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Masha said. “She’ll be worried.”

  Lika looked up, and for the first time Masha saw something ugly on her face, a bitter expression, like she was about to spit. Her mouth opened, as though she really would, but she was only drawing a breath, which she held inside for what seemed an unnaturally long time. She let it out all at once.

  “Mama only cares if she wants the man for herself. Otherwise, they can do what they want, even to me.” Then, smiling, she lifted a chemise off the bed and asked in a bright brittle tone, “Help me pack?”

  Masha stayed by the door. Until Granny started slapping Lika, she’d been half distracted by thoughts of Isaac, sensations of Isaac. Now everything soured with Lika’s comment, which was, in fact, a confession. A confession delivered through the years of their friendship, as one might drop crumbs to find a way out of the inescapable dark forest of childhood.

  How obtuse Masha had been. Deliberately, she thought now. She remembered that day last spring in Sokolniki Park when Lika insisted that Antosha had not “ruined” her. That was no longer possible. Then she’d sobbed, not over Isaac. Masha had had nothing to say. I have stories too, you know. True ones.

  Stories such as would make any woman cry.

  Masha was a teacher. She loved her girls, was a girl once herself holding Mother’s hand on the street and watching them beat the stray dogs. Mother’s horrifying warning was the only protection she could offer.

  Lika carried on chattering, engaging her hands to avoid Masha’s eye, using the silken piles to distract Masha from what she’d said. “Can you believe I’m going to Paris? We start lessons right away.” A timid glance.

  Should she press for more? Lika had changed the subject. Wasn’t that her right?

  Masha finally settled on “Please don’t go.”

  “I know you don’t approve of Ignati.”

  “I just came from Isaac’s studio. Lika? Ignati’s wife’s in Paris.”

  Lika, still folding, let out another puff of air, upward this time, ruffling her bangs. “Isaac doesn’t like Ignati. But, Masha, I’ve finally fallen for someone else. Antosha’s very fond of him. Did you know Ignati looked over his accounts and discovered Suvorin owed him a lot of money?” Two chemises went onto the pile. “It’s such a relief to know where I stand with a man, even if it’s second place. Ignati put his finger on it. He says Antosha has a way of making people open up without ever revealing himself. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Before Masha could reply, a creak sounded from the hall. “Granny, stop listening!” Lika called.

  “Pig!” came through the door.

  She turned back to Masha. “I’ll stay away from the wife. What else can I do?”

  No qualms at all. Yet it felt like just months ago that Masha was standing in the chest of drawers brushing the shoulders of an eighteen-year-old sculpted out of powdered sugar. How had this happened?

  It happened because Masha had invited Lika.

  “And when this married man and his wife toss you aside? What then? I’m asking as your friend. Because it seems to me—if I understand you properly—you’ve been hurt enough.”

  Lika brightened. “Are we still friends, Masha?”

  “Yes! That’s why I’m here.” She came and sat beside Lika on the bed.

  “Not on the dress.”

  Masha pulled it out from under her and tossed it in the trunk. “I feel to blame for this situation, Lika. I didn’t realize . . .”

  “What?” Lika asked.

  “If I’d known your situation.”

  Lika shook her head. Too late for words. They were only syllables filling the air. How could they change the past? Lika leaned in then and embraced Masha; there was something childlike in how hard she clung, a desperation.

  “Why would I blame you for anything?” Lika asked.

  “You wrote that I should pity you.”

  Lika looked Masha in the eye. Hair unkempt, her cheeks so red they still seemed to be burning from Granny’s slaps.

  All she said was, “I hope you won’t think too badly of me.”

  On her beautiful face, Masha read an unhappy ending.

  WHEN SHE LEFT LIKA, MASHA PAUSED TO TOUCH HER mouth and discovered tenderness. Between her legs, something sang. Yet the smell of cat as she went down the stairs made her ill. The whole situation did. How could she go back to Isaac after that?

  She longed to, though. She longed for it.

  4

  MONTHS PASSED BEFORE MASHA FOUND OUT about the parties at the Hotel Louvre. Antosha was barely home in all that time. After Yalta, he’d gone to St. Petersburg. Then there were briefer jaunts, if he wasn’t coughing too badly. Yet the times he was home, they had some painful disagreements, upsetting to them both.

  Lika’s predicament was the cause of their discord. Letters postmarked from Paris piled up on his desk during his absences.

  When he returned the first time, Masha asked for Lika’s news, knowing it full well, since she’d been receiving unhappy letters of her own.

  Irritated by her prying, Antosha handed them over. “Please read them, if you’re so curious.”

  This one had come while Lika was en route.

  I shall die soon. Darling, write for old time’s sake, and don’t forget that you gave me your word of honour to come and see me. Don’t forget the woman you rejected . . .

  Darling? Such an intimate tone. The second had come two weeks later, after she and Varvara settled in the house Ignati had found for them. It was full of foreign girls who wanted to be singers, which sounded to Masha awfully like a brothel.

  I barely see Potapenko. Sometimes he comes for half an hour in the morning, presumably without his wife knowing. Every day she stages scenes and hysterics. He claims she has consumption. She’s obviously faking it . . .

  “Did you know his wife was in Paris?” Masha asked Antosha.

  His lips compressed. “Certainly not.”

  “But you seem to have promised that you would visit Lika. I suppose it was a joke. What are you going to tell her this time?”

  “Would you like to vet my reply before I send it?”

  His cool tone offended her, so she said yes, simply because he expected no. An hour later, he called her back to his study and showed her his letter.

  Lika, when you’re a rich and famous singer, give me alms or marry and support me, so I can be idle. In the meantime, I’m obliged to stay home and write.

  P.S. Potapenko should buy you a ticket back to Moscow. Tell him I said so.

  “Hers are the typical complaints of a mistress,” Antosha said.

  He had a point, but Masha had to wonder if he might have written more sympathetically if he wasn’t also writing for the sister he was annoyed at. She handed back his letter.

  “And Ignati?”

  “Do I have to show that to you too?”

  “Ple
ase.”

  “Then wait a moment.”

  She went to the window and looked out at the garden, their still snowy south of France. Soon spring would come, and they’d be working harmoniously again. Antosha was having a writing cottage built, Masha overseeing the project. She’d hired the carpenters. The lumber was already stacked in the yard.

  “Done,” he said.

  She left the window to read what he’d written. A single sentence: You are a pig.

  “Will that do?” he asked.

  EASTER CAME AGAIN, BUT NOT LIKA.

  I’m not coming home, Masha. I’ve been unwell and am taking a ghastly concoction on the doctor’s orders. If I go anywhere, it will be Switzerland for a cure. Did I mention addressing my letters to Madame? This will help with the landlady . . .

  Masha’s brothers, Ivan and Misha, converged on Melikhovo. (Misha had finally moved out after he was transferred to a town north of Moscow.) And as hadn’t happened in many years, Aleksander came, bringing his two sons. Antosha saw their eldest brother whenever he went to St. Petersburg, but Masha hadn’t for several years and so was surprised to see an ogre cross their threshold. Or had she just forgotten how tall and broad he was?

  His boys disturbed her even more. Eight and ten, they displayed sadistic traits; Antosha caught them tormenting Brom. Something was off in their appearance. Both had small heads and thin upper lips, above which the skin was curiously smooth, features common in children of alcoholic mothers and bestial grandfathers, Antosha told her.

  Aleksander lived to dispute. He drank too much, expressed his hatred of Father in disrespectful remarks and made outrageous demands of Antosha. Why couldn’t hebuild a dacha at Melikhovo?

  Because then his children would be sodomizing the dogs with sticks every summer. Antosha avoided spelling this out, which caused Aleksander to revenge himself with sarcasm. Several times he referred to Antosha as “a sick man,” which upset Mother. Another time he said, “You and our sister have a false relationship. Don’t you see it? Any kind word from you and she’s all yours.”

  “Ha!” Antosha replied. “She’s practically dictating my letters.”

  Masha brooded over Aleksander’s comment. Mainly she was annoyed that from the outside, gratitude looked like weakness. When she was younger, or even a few years ago, he might have been speaking the truth, but not now; Masha managed Melikhovo, and on most matters Antosha deferred to her. Also, without her, he wouldn’t have been able to travel as much. Aleksander, who saw her so rarely, couldn’t be expected to see beyond her adolescent self. But it was also true that, lately, her gratitude conflicted with her sense of worth, a thing she treasured more knowing that Lika’s had been stolen from her.