Isolde

by Irena Odoevtseva

  “That’s right, to Russia. To deliver some documents. It’s a very important and dangerous mission. I’ll be leaving any day now. I may be executed out there. I wanted to ask you…” He paused again. “I wanted to ask you. Do you want to come with me?”

  Liza stood still before her brother. But it was no longer the same Liza that had only just walked into the dining room. It was the little girl from Trouville, the heroic little girl ready to sacrifice herself. Joy and dread steadily drained the blood from her heart. Could this really be true? Could everything she hadn’t even dared to dream finally be happening?

  “To Russia?”

  Nikolai shook her by the hands.

  “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you understand what I’m saying? Do you want to go with me to Russia?”

  Liza jerked her hands away from him and threw her arms around his neck.

  “I can’t believe it! Can it be true? Can it really be true? Oh, Kolya, I’m so happy, my heart could burst!”

  “Hold on, hold on a minute. We need to talk about this properly. So, you agree to come with me. Now, tell me—will you help me?”

  “Yes, yes, yes! I’ll do anything! I’ll do anything I can—and anything I can’t!”

  “All right, all right, slow down. Listen to me. We need money for the trip. Big money. The kind of money that our organization doesn’t have. So I’ve been instructed to raise it myself. I thought you might be able to help with this.”

  “Me? But I don’t—”

  “Stop interrupting. I know you don’t have a million in the bank. But you can still help. Cromwell is in love with you…”

  Late that night, as she was drawing the curtains, Liza looked up at the sky.

  “Today is Christmas Eve. It’s a holiday.” The dim thought crossed her mind. “That’s right, it’s a holiday. A real holy day. But what about Crom? Oh, never mind that. I’m not doing it for my own sake, I’m doing it for Russia. All for Russia.” Liza let out a deep sigh. And she almost felt that with that sigh her heart flew out of her breast and out into the cold, dark night, past the moon and the clouds, higher and higher, all the way up to the star of Bethlehem and all the way up to God…

  IV

  THE FAINT SOUND of chiming bells carried through the open window.

  Music? Where could it be coming from?

  Liza had never heard such gentle, resonant, moving music.

  She lay in her bed, smiling, afraid to move. “More, more! I don’t want it to end.”

  And the music poured through the open window, floated over her bed and filled the entire room.

  Liza gingerly opened her eyes.

  Light was streaming in through the gap in the curtains. Liza had never seen light like this before. It was quite wonderful. It wasn’t moonlight or sunlight. It merged with the music so the air shimmered iridescently with sound and light.

  And then the music suddenly stopped.

  Liza got up and opened the window. Warm, humid air caressed her face and her bare shoulders.

  The morning was light and foggy.

  The sky was a bright blue, with iridescent clouds strewn across it. Liza leant out and looked down. A white, transparent, iridescent fog blanketed the entire garden, revealing the occasional jasmine bush or dark fir tree only momentarily, before enveloping it again. On a circular patch of emerald-green lawn, right in front of the house, sat an angel.

  The angel was sitting on his haunches with his large white wings folded on his back, like a bird. The wind ruffled his long golden hair. His bright blue eyes were gazing at the bright blue sky with a pensive and confused look. Beside him, on the green grass, lay a golden lyre.

  “An angel!”

  Liza let out an involuntary gasp and ran downstairs just as she was, barefoot and wearing only her light nightdress.

  “An angel! No, it can’t be. They don’t exist. It’s a dream.” Thought after thought ran through her head. Yet she could distinctly feel the coolness of the stone staircase, the gravel on the garden path pricking her feet painfully and the grass wet with dew.

  She ran over to the angel in silence, afraid of startling him. But the angel didn’t seem to notice her. He went on looking up at the sky pensively and quite indifferently. She got on her knees and embraced him. He was warm and soft and rustled gently.

  “My dear angel!” she whispered, barely breathing through her tears of bliss. “My dear angel!”

  The angel didn’t even flinch. Indifferently, his blue eyes gazed at the blue sky. She pressed her cheek to his warm, white, rustling wings. She felt as if her heart were bursting, as if she were dying of joy.

  “My dear angel!”

  Liza woke up and opened her eyes.

  What a beautiful, prophetic dream.

  An angel had visited her in her dream. The angel had said to her, “Go.” As though he were speaking to Joan of Arc. She looked out of the window.

  “The sun is out today. Soon I’ll see it from Moscow… The sun is better there, it’s a Russian sun.”

  For a moment, she saw stars in her eyes—yellow, red and pink dots danced before her. Through the dots she glimpsed Andrei’s face. Liza closed her eyes.

  “No, I mustn’t think of him. I mustn’t think about him, I mustn’t think about love.” She shook her head. She was happy now. This was true happiness. She was perfectly happy and she didn’t need anything else. Not Andrei, not love.

  She heard a knock at the door and then in walked Dasha, wearing an overcoat and a hat with flowers.

  “Farewell, mademoiselle. I’m leaving now. I’ve got my wages.”

  Liza recollected that Nikolai had wanted to get rid of the maid so that she wouldn’t see them leave.

  “Goodbye, Dasha. All the best.”

  But Dasha didn’t move.

  “It’s not hard to find a position such as this. My wages were always late and I never got a moment’s peace. As for madame, the less said, the better. But I’ll miss you, mademoiselle. I feel ever so sorry for you… Well, I hope you grow up big and clever.”

  She bowed.

  “Thank you, Dasha.”

  But Dasha lingered in the doorway.

  “However can you bear to stay with those two, all by yourself? They’re always whispering about something. Hiding in corners and whispering.”

  Could Dasha have overheard something of their plans?

  “They’re putting on a play for Shrove Tuesday,” Liza rushed to explain.

  Dasha snorted.

  “A play? I can’t see any good coming of their play.” She paused. “I feel ever so sorry for you, mademoiselle. Truly, I love you and I’m sorry to be leaving you.”

  “I’m sorry too, Dasha.” Liza reached over and rummaged about in the dresser. She pulled out a colourful silk scarf and held it out to Dasha. “Thank you, Dasha. Take this as a keepsake.” She pressed Dasha’s coarse hand in hers. “Goodbye, Dasha.”

  Dasha bowed again.

  “Goodbye, mademoiselle. May the Lord keep you.”

  Liza closed the door behind her. All of a sudden she felt genuinely quite sad. Dasha had lived under the same roof as Liza and had loved her, but Liza hadn’t an inkling. She could have gone and sat with her in the kitchen, which would have made things a little better. They had lived under one roof and seen each other every day, and yet Liza had no idea. That’s what life was like. Nobody knew anything. She shook her head. It would have been better before, but now she didn’t need any love. She didn’t need any pity. Now she was truly happy.

  Time had almost stopped. The clocks were impossibly slow. Liza counted down the hours, the minutes until Saturday. Saturday night was when they were due to depart. Time had almost stopped, and the hour hand barely moved. This slow, halted existence was nothing but excited, happy anticipation. Liza had felt her heart ignited by Kolya’s words on Christmas Eve: “Do you want to go to Russia?”—and still it went on smouldering in her breast. Her only fear was that it would flare up and burn her from the inside out.

 
V

  CROMWELL WAS SITTING on the divan in Liza’s room.

  “You’ll have the diamonds tomorrow night,” he said.

  Liza closed her eyes and leant her head back against the cushion. After a whole day of worrying and fussing, everything now felt still and quiet. She only had to wish for something in order to get it.

  Like in a dream.

  Cromwell was silent. Liza sat quietly, with her hands on her lap. Her heart was beating lightly and happily. Everything was fine, everything was splendid. And what lay ahead?

  Cromwell cleared his throat.

  “Are you unwell, Crom? Do you have a cold? That would be awful.”

  “No, I’m quite well.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “You’ll have the diamonds and the money tomorrow night,” he repeated.

  “Crom, you’re an angel.”

  He shook his head sadly.

  “Angels don’t steal.”

  “Is it so hard for you to steal?”

  “Terribly,” he said earnestly. “It would be easier to die.”

  “How can stealing be more difficult than dying?”

  Cromwell hung his head.

  “It’s far more difficult.”

  Liza looked at him with curiosity.

  “I can’t understand that. I’m afraid of dying.”

  She closed her eyes again and laid her head down on the cushion.

  Before her she saw Andrei’s pale, sad, angry face floating, as though in a haze.

  “I would die only for love,” she said quietly.

  She felt a lump in her throat, and her hands grew cold.

  “Or if I were executed. Or if I got sick, had an accident or died of old age.”

  Cromwell said nothing.

  Her head rested on the cushion. Her face had acquired an expression of calm, distance, serenity. Quite inanimate, the life had drained out of it. Her lips were still and her eyelids tightly closed.

  Cromwell leant over her. His heart contracted with pity. What was wrong with her? She was a girl, practically a child.

  Why did she look so unhappy?

  “Has some tragedy befallen you, Isolde?”

  She opened her eyes. Her eyes shone brightly. Just for a moment, Cromwell felt as he had done back in Biarritz—her gaze caressed his skin like warm sunlight. And, just as he had done in Biarritz, he closed his eyes.

  “Tragedy?” Liza asked, her voice ringing out brightly. “No, not tragedy—happiness, great happiness. We’re going to Russia! I’ve never felt so happy.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Liza reached out and took his hand. He pressed her fingers in his.

  “I’ll bring everything tomorrow. But you won’t forget, will you, Isolde? You won’t forget what you promised me?”

  She blushed.

  “I’ll remember. But we don’t need to talk about that now. You see, Crom, Russia is blanketed in snow right now. Bright white snow. In the mornings the sunlight makes it look pink, and at night the moon turns it almost blue. You’ve never seen snow like it before. It exists only in Russia. Aren’t you glad to be going?”

  “Of course. Of course, I’m glad, Isolde.”

  The door opened and in walked Nikolai.

  “Hullo, Crom.” He squeezed Cromwell’s shoulder affectionately. “Has it been arranged? When is it happening?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Excellent. We knew we could depend on you.” He paused to think. “So, we can be on our way the day after tomorrow. You can spend the day here with us. There’s no point in your going back home afterwards, in case they discover something.”

  Cromwell nodded.

  “No, I shan’t be able to go home after that.”

  Nikolai lit a cigarette.

  “So, it’s settled. Andrei!” he called out. “Andrei, come up here!”

  They heard the rapid patter of footsteps coming up the stairs.

  “We’re leaving on Saturday!” shouted Liza.

  Andrei had just entered; he was standing in the doorway.

  “On Saturday?” he said in a strangled voice. His face was white as a sheet.

  Liza walked over to him.

  “What’s the matter, Andrei? Are you unwell?”

  He placed his hand on his heart.

  “No, no, I just ran up too quickly, that’s all. So, Saturday?” he asked again quietly. His voice sounded strangled and his lips were quavering.

  Liza suddenly felt that she too was finding it difficult to breathe, as if she had also run up the stairs too quickly.

  “He loves me,” she thought. “He’s jealous. He can’t stand the thought of Crom going with me.”

  Nikolai held up his arm.

  “Listen, chaps—how about we all go out to dinner one last time? Do you have any money, Crom?”

  Cromwell nodded.

  “I do.”

  “Wonderful. Let’s have one last hurrah. Go and get ready, Liza.”

  “What nonsense,” Andrei suddenly declared. “We’re not going anywhere. We can’t.”

  “Why not?” Liza asked in surprise.

  “Because we can’t be seen together.” Andrei shrugged. “It may not matter to you, seeing as you’re all leaving. But I’m the one who has to stay.”

  “He’s right,” Nikolai concurred. “We can’t go out to a restaurant, but we needn’t be dull either. Let’s buy some wine and have a party here. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  VI

  THE FIRE IS LIT in the dining room. A yellow light hangs low over the table.

  Liza is sitting on the divan, her feet tucked under her. Her head is filled with noise. The hot, smoky air stings her eyes. Through the haze, she can see shiny glass bottles standing beside a plate of pink ham. Orange peel litters the floor. Nikolai pours her some more wine. She raises her glass.

  “To our success! Why don’t you want to clink glasses with me, Andrei?”

  Andrei puts his glass down on the table.

  “You can clink glasses with Cromwell. I’ve had too much to drink.”

  Liza shrugs.

  “Suit yourself. Crom, to our success!”

  Andrei laughs.

  Liza drinks the wine and the noise in her head grows even louder.

  The branches swaying outside the window look like hands reaching out towards her, pleading for help.

  Car horns in the street sound like voices calling out to her: “We’re waiting! We’re waiting! Come on!”

  “I’m coming!” she wants to shout back.

  She reaches out her hand and plucks an apple from the fruit bowl.

  She no longer has a heart in her breast. It’s empty and silent there. Her heart is this red apple. This is it—her heart. It’s sitting in the palm of her hand. It’s exposed, it’s beating, it flutters and it loves. It feels everything. She squeezes it with her fingers, and her heart feels pain. What should she do with it? What should she do with her heart?

  She holds the apple out to Andrei.

  “Eat this, Andrei, it’s a gift from me to you.”

  Andrei takes the apple indifferently, rubs it on his sleeve and then digs his strong white teeth into it, taking a big bite.

  “This pain is going to be horrible,” Liza thinks. “He’s eating my heart.” She clenches her fists to stifle a cry of pain. But it doesn’t hurt at all. She looks at Andrei in surprise and watches his white teeth chomp on the apple. And it doesn’t hurt at all. “It’s not my heart. I’m just drunk. Drop it. Don’t eat it, Andrei.”

  Andrei throws the apple core on the floor.

  Nikolai is laughing and drinking. And Cromwell, too, is laughing and drinking. Only Andrei is pale and sullen.

  Liza quietly sings an old French song:

  Écoutez ma chanson, dames et demoiselles.

  Si vous mangez mon coeur, il vous poussera des ailes.*

  Only Andrei hadn’t eaten her heart; he’d eaten an apple. If he’d eaten her heart, he’d be happy. The car horns outside are calling her again: “We’re wait
ing! We’re waiting! Come on!” Where do they want to take her? To Russia? But she’s going there already. In two days’ time, in two days’ time. She presses her hands to her breast. She’s going to be a martyr. That’s right, a martyr. She’s a heroine. She’s going to save Russia. She’s Joan of Arc. An angel had come to her in a dream and said: “Go.” She clenches her fists tighter and gets up from the divan. The ringing in her ears grows louder. It’s the ringing of church bells in Moscow. She feels so light, so ethereal, so happy. If she were to wave her arms, she would fly up to the sky. But she can’t fly up to the sky. She is needed here, on earth. She has to save Russia, for that is why she was put on this earth.

  She goes right up to the fireplace. Why is it so hot? Is it the fire there or the one burning in her breast?

  “I’m going to Petersburg, as well,” she hears Nikolai say.

  Petersburg… She turns around and looks at Andrei, Nikolai and Cromwell. They’re sitting on the divan, drinking. Cromwell strikes a match. The yellow flame flickers feebly amid the smoky air.

  Petersburg…

  She watches Andrei suddenly start to dissolve, to melt away, to stretch taller and taller.

  It’s not Andrei any more. It’s a tall mast with a big white flag fluttering on top of it. The room, the cigarette smoke and the bottles are all gone.

  There is a blue river, a blue sky, hundreds of white flags billowing on top of masts. There are so many ships, so many flags, so many seagulls. No, it’s not Petersburg. It’s Constantinople. It’s Marseilles. Liza shakes her head.

  “No, it’s not Petersburg.”

  Nikolai is standing in the middle of the room.

  “Then I’ll have to go to Kiev for a few days before going back to Moscow…”

  He’s waving his arms and Andrei is laughing.

  “What a fabulous, what a dangerous journey you’re undertaking! You’re a hero!”

  Nikolai spins round and scowls at him.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I’m going to have another drink.” Andrei pours himself some more wine. “Drink with me.” He holds up his glass and clinks it with Cromwell’s. “To your journey!” He looks him straight in the eyes. “To your journey to hell!”