CHAPTER FOUR
The beef stroganoff came out well this time. I combined the onions, beef, and mushrooms in a special spicy sour-cream sauce that my mother had taught me. A few weeks had passed since I had first come to stay at 69 Keeney Avenue; I had become used to the idiosyncrasies of the kitchen stove as well as the idiosyncrasies of the Pavlovich family. Despite my initial impression of Nicholas as being somewhat lazy and slovenly, he tended to leave early for his University job, rarely lingering around long enough to have breakfast. However, when I saw him most mornings leaving for work, I was confirmed in my opinion of him. His shirt would be half-out, his shoelaces untied, and his papers would be falling out of his brown leather briefcase. Nicholas rarely met my eyes on these occasions; he would look down at the floor as he offered greetings and hurried out the door. Then he was gone; I sometimes didn’t see him again for days.
I considered myself lucky that I hadn’t seen Ivan Pavlovich since the first breakfast two weeks earlier. From what I gathered from overheard conversations between Harriet and Alexander, Ivan was very much occupied with the closings on several of his houses. One of the richest and most powerful men in West Hartford, the real-estate mogul was about to become richer. Alexander was in awe of his older brother; he sometimes spoke of wanting to go to work for him after he was done with school. But this just remained talk; he was much too involved in his daily computer activities to undertake the training that would allow him to become a licensed real-estate agent.
This day I was preparing several items for lunch. There was the beef stroganoff; I was also preparing a thick beet soup known popularly as borscht. I boiled this soup in a large steel pot over the burner of the stovetop. It became a rich, purple color; the delightful smell permeated the kitchen. I quickly gazed around the room; I was happiest and most comfortable in the safety of the kitchen. I wondered if Alexander’s mother and grandmother had felt the same way.
For dessert, I baked a BabkaYablochnaya. It is commonly known in the West as an apple Charlotte. I surrounded the applesauce with strips of crisp bread and then covered it with an apricot sauce. This had also been a specialty of my mother’s, and I hoped that the Pavlovich family would like it.
Alexander was on vacation, and did not have to go to school that week. Both he and Harriet expressed their approval of the meal. I smiled my thanks. After clearing the table and washing the dishes, I went out to the garden in the backyard for some fresh air. It was a beautiful day; the fragrant smell of various flowers hung in the air. Despite what the young girl Becky had said, Nicholas was a dedicated gardener; various herbs, plants and flowers were carefully and tastefully located in different parts of the yard. Attractive stones bordered the miscellaneous herbage of the lovely garden. It was very peaceful here, and I felt relaxed.
A voice from behind startled me. “Sonia, Sonia…how does your garden grow?” Alexander Pavlovich asked with an ironic tone. All of his former kindness seemed to have drained from his face. Never before had I noticed how much of the Pavlovich cruelty was etched upon his dark features. “With pretty Cossacks all in a row,” he said with an unfriendly smirk.
My face turned red with anger. “I am not liking this, Mr. Alexander,” I said indignantly. “My family are not being Cossacks. Please to apologize,” I said, my hands resting on my hips.
Alexander smiled, this time in a friendlier manner. “Good, you’re not pulling on your earlobe,” he observed. “I’m glad that you’re not scared of me. And I do apologize,” he said this softly, then took my hand and kissed it in the same old-fashioned way that his brother Ivan had earlier. “You are a white Russian. I am a black Russian,” he joked, pulling a small glass bottle from his pocket. “The only thing separating us is vodka,” he remarked. He took a small sip and then offered the bottle to me.
I pushed it away, offended by the vulgarity of his offer. “Not all people in my country are drinking like this,” I informed Alexander. I pointed to the budding flowers of the garden. “Like buds here, you are needing to grow-up,” I informed him with anger in my voice. I turned to leave, but he grabbed my arm and before I could stop him, he kissed me on the lips. Despite my anger, I couldn’t help feeling something; excitement, passion---I wasn’t sure. I pushed him away, looking at him silently.
He turned bright red in the face, like the borscht soup that we had eaten earlier. “I’m…sorry. I’m sorry, Sonia,” he stammered with embarrassment. “I don’t know what came over me. You are so pretty, with that little button nose and light blonde hair…” his voice trailed off.
I quietly walked over to him with a smile on my lips. Then I slapped him hard on the face. Alexander rubbed his cheek, saying nothing. “You will respect me, Alexander Pavlovich,” I informed him, tears coming to my eyes. “You need respect me…” I stammered. I turned around and fled the garden. I ran up the back steps, onto the large, wooden porch, and fled into the house. I retreated to the safety of the kitchen, grateful to find it empty. Harriet was nowhere to be seen. I was happy---I just wanted to be alone.
I glanced at the refrigerator. Taped to the front of it was a piece of paper. I tore it off and regarded it. What I held in my hands was a recipe. I examined it a little more closely, wiping away the remainder of my tears with the sleeve of my shirt. It was a recipe for a Russian cake. I carefully read the instructions. It was something that I had never seen before; a Russian Bird’s Milk Cake. At first glance, it seemed too difficult to attempt to bake. A note was attached to the back of the recipe. It simply said: “For the baking contest.” But who had left it there for me?
“A Bird’s Milk Cake?” a girl’s soft voice from behind startled me. I almost jumped, quickly spinning around. It was Becky, the next-door neighbor. Her milky-white skin looked paler than ever. I noticed that she was wearing the same sweater and dress that she had worn on the day we first met. But that had been two weeks ago; surely she must have had something else to wear.
I smiled at her. “Oh, you are scaring me, Becky,” I told her. “I see you are here for promised cookies. Give me moment; I will bake some for you,” I promised her.
But Becky’s attention was fixed upon the piece of paper that contained the recipe. “Do they really use the milk of a bird?” she asked innocently.
I laughed. “Oh, silly girl, that is just name of cake. It is looking like milk of bird, not tasting like it. Here,” I showed her the recipe. “Big contest is being tomorrow, and Sonia is lazy girl. Let’s try and make this together, huh?” I asked the serious-faced girl. For the first time since I met her, Becky smiled.
“Oh, I would like that, Sonia!” Becky exclaimed. “Mommy never lets me help her cook. She says that I’m too frail,” her eyes darkened for a moment.
“But is being nonsense,” I declared. “You will help Sonia, da?”
Becky enthusiastically nodded her head. I found a clean mixing bowl and placed it on the counter. The recipe called for gelatin that had been soaking in warm water. I retrieved a box of gelatin from the cupboard, and let it soak while I showed Becky a card game that we played in Russia. When I thought it ready, I placed the gelatin in a steel pot and boiled it. I let Becky help me to strain it. We separated six egg whites and beat them thoroughly. I then stirred in one and a half cups of sugar, slowly adding it to the gelatin with mashed butter. I put this cream-souffle part in the refrigerator and moved on to the cake part.
I had Becky help me to separate six more egg whites, and we beat these, adding one and a half cups of sugar. I took the remaining twelve egg yolks and added them in one at a time. I added one and a half cups of flour and carefully stirred the mixture. I placed this into a cake mold covered with metal foil, sprinkling some flour over the top. Becky got much of the flour on herself; however, with her pale skin it wasn’t as obvious as it would have been on someone else. I placed the mold into the oven. The recipe called for a baking time of about forty minutes. As I set the timer, I wondered if it was wise, trusting to a recipe from an unknown source. I admonished myself for not considering
this question before doing all this work.
“Do you think this turn out ok, Becky?” I asked her over my shoulder.
But there was no reply. I looked over to where Becky had been standing. There was nothing there but some white flour lying on the floor. She must have slipped out the back door while I was busy with the oven. I pulled up a wooden stool and sat watching the cake rise through the glass window of the oven. I must have dozed off; the timer buzzed and I hastened to use a couple of cloth pot holders to retrieve the cake from the heat.
“Is smelling good, huh?” a familiar voice surprised me from behind. I nearly dropped the cake, having been startled like that. The familiar square eyeglasses and blondish-gray hair of Harriet Blom greeted my curious look. She wore a strange half-smile; part mocking, part friendly. I placed the still-warm cake on a cooling rack on the counter. As I was taking the pot holders off of my hands, Harriet reached over to turn the oven off.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly told her. “I should have turned off oven more quick. Was careless of me,” I said quietly. I shook my head in disgust. But Harriet smiled; to my surprise, she placed a friendly hand on my shoulder.
“It’s ok, Sonia,” she assured me. “Perhaps I am being too hard on you these past two weeks,” she informed me, her brow wrinkled with concern.
“Oh, no Babushka,” I contradicted her. “You have been fair boss. I am appreciating all you have done,” I assured her.
Harriet shook her head with sadness. “No I have been tough on you. No one likes being replaced, especially by younger, better-looking person. But you have been doing good job here, Sonia. Your cheerfulness is bringing much-needed light to this somber house,” she declared.
I was embarrassed, and tried to change the subject. “I am finding this recipe for cake taped to refrigerator. I am preparing now for entry tomorrow. Am hoping it turn out ok,” I confided to her. Despite myself, I was once again pulling on my earlobe.
“Then we are making it come out ok,” Harriet cheerfully declared. As we waited for the cake to cool, I took some milk-chocolate out of the cupboard and melted it in a pot. After testing it with a toothpick, I cut the cake lengthwise with a sharp knife. Harriet helped me to spread the cream-souffle on one part. We covered it with another, and then carefully poured the melted chocolate upon the top and sides of the cake. We finished it with a flourish, decorating it generously with fruits and nuts.
“Voila,” Harriet announced in triumph when we had finished. “The famous Russian Bird’s Milk Cake will beat all competition tomorrow,” she declared. “You winning contest is as certain as wrinkles on Harriet’s face,” she laughed.
I laughed with her, but I was still worried. “But Babushka,” I protested. “I am taking big risk on cake. What chance has Sonia from small village in Russia to beat American cooks?” I shook my head.
Harriet’s face was suddenly red with anger. She had a look that almost seemed like a sneer; not unlike the one she had on the day I met her. “Are you questioning Harriet, girl?” she said with an almost hostile stare. Then, she seemed to soften a bit. Some of the wrinkles on her face relaxed. “You are not good cook---you are great cook,” she assured me with a pat on my back. She gave me a quick hug and smiled. “You are needing confidence, Sonia. When you believe, they will believe,” she informed me.
I wrapped the cake in metal foil, covering it with a plastic cover for the next day. Harriet left that afternoon to do some errands, and I took the opportunity to dust the living room. I usually avoided this room if I could help it; the picture there with the bridge over the river still made me shiver every time I viewed it. But I couldn’t avoid it; I needed to dust around that area, and I knew that I was just being silly.
As I wiped the rag over the glass surface of the picture, I thought that I could hear the sound of the river flowing. It was loud, like the roar of thunder. I imagined that I could feel the cold spray of water on my face. I thought that I saw the current rapidly moving. Then, I saw the ghostly face. It was grinning, reaching its white, bony hands out to me. I suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to jump into its arms…
Suddenly, someone abruptly pulled me back from the abyss. As I staggered away from the painting, I felt a jolt to my system; I was disoriented for the moment, unsure of where I was. Then, I recovered, and turned around to see who it was that was holding me tenderly in their strong arms.
It was Ivan Pavlovich.
I nearly shrieked in my surprise. My eyes went wide with fear. However, Ivan was smiling in a friendly, almost fatherly manner. He stroked my hair, and helped me to the Victorian-style sofa. I sat down and attempted to catch my breath. Ivan remained standing in front of me, watching me with interest as I fidgeted on the velvet sofa. He looked down at his watch, regarding with a warm grin.
“My dear Sonia,” he gently addressed me. “You really should be more careful. That picture is a strange one indeed. Nicholas should have warned you about it,” he admonished his brother.
I tried to return Ivan’s smile. “Thank you, Mr. Pavlovich. I don’t know what happened. I felt that I needed to jump into that river---but that is crazy, no?” I inquired of him.
Ivan was pacing back and forth across the living room carpet. He reminded me of a caged Siberian tiger. He took one last look at the painting; he then seemed to forget that it existed.
“Crazy…no, not at all,” he echoed me. Ivan Pavlovich paused for a moment, gazing at me with a strange mixture of craving and disgust. One moment I felt that he might take advantage of me; the next, I could see something wolf-like, ravenous in his eyes. He reminded me of a wild beast, about to devour his prey.
But then, Ivan’s voice became silky, not unlike that of his brother, Nicholas. “Little Sonia,” he said in a calculating tone. “It must be difficult for you to be here, all alone in a strange house, in a foreign country,” he said, bending down to one knee and stroking my hand kindly.
I was a little suspicious. “It hasn’t being so bad,” I replied cautiously. “Aunt Harriet, Mr. Nicholas, Mr. Alexander---they being friends as well as employers,” I stated.
Ivan stared hard at me with those large, penetrating eyes of his. “And me, Sonia…am I not your friend as well?” he asked softly.
I hesitated. “Of course,” I said reluctantly. “Mr. Ivan is being good friend too,” I said weakly.
“Yes,” the fox-like voice assented. “And friends should be willing to help each other, shouldn’t they, Sonia? For you see,” he said a little louder, rising to his feet. “I need your help, my friend. Very, very much so,” he implored me.
I looked around the room. It appeared that I was alone in the house with Ivan Pavlovich. Neither Alexander nor Nicholas seemed to be around, and Harriet had not yet returned from her errand. And I suddenly realized how dark the room had become.
Ivan’s hulking body edged closer to the edge of the sofa. I could smell the strong odor of cologne upon him; he clearly liked to sprinkle it liberally upon himself. His eyes peered challengingly into my own. My hands began to tremble with fear.
“There is an item, Sonia,” he informed me. “An item which I suspect is located somewhere in this house. An item which I must have,” he stated with iron determination.
I was flabbergasted. “What…what kind of item?” I asked in confusion. “I am not knowing what you talk of, Mr. Pavlovich.” But Ivan just broadened his grin, shaking his head with derision. “Ah, but I think you do know of what I talk about. You cook, you clean---in fact, you have the very run of the house, do you not?” he commented with an almost diabolical, gleeful look upon his features.
I shook my head, denying him again. But this time, Ivan lost his patience. “Don’t be coy with me, little Russian girl,” he commanded. “There is a valuable family heirloom hidden in this house. One which rightfully belongs to me!” he roared. But then, noticing my cowering, shaking form, he changed his tone of voice.
“Perhaps Mr. Ivan is wrong,” he said much more softly. “Perhaps you don’t know
what Nicholas has been hiding from me. But--you can help me to find it,” he demanded.
I was tired of his repeated attempts at intimidation. I got to my feet and tried to assert myself. “I am not knowing anything concerning family heirlooms, Mr. Pavlovich,” I informed him, attempting to keep a steady voice and trying desperately not to pull on my earlobe. “I have been busy baking cake for West Hartford contest tomorrow. It is being held in old town hall. I want to be chef…not be in middle of family squabble,” I said with determination.
Ivan’s voice was quieter, almost reflective. “Ah, but you are in the middle, Sonia,” he informed me. “And that is a position from which you will help me,” he said. From his pocket, Ivan pulled out an old drawing of a Russian tea samovar. In America, a samovar would probably be considered a large kettle. This particular one was shaped like a silver bullet, with gold leaves decorated upon its ornate top and bottom. As I examined the picture, I noticed that there were two interlocking letter A’s on the surface of the samovar. There was something strangely familiar about it---like something that I had seen before. It reminded me of a samovar that I had seen in a Russian history book.
“Here,” Ivan commanded me, as he forced the picture into my hands. “You will search the house for this object for me; you will start immediately, and tell no one about it. For you see, Sonia,” confided, putting his large, red-bearded face right in front of my own. “I can get you all the things you most desire: Money, citizenship, becoming a chef---the entire American Dream,” he promised. “And,” he threatened, with a menacing curl of his lip. “I can take your American Dream away. If you betray me, I’ll have you deported. Or worse,” he whispered cryptically.
Suddenly, the figure of Alexander Pavlovich appeared in the room. My fear transformed into gratefulness. I ran over to where he was standing, and clutched his arm for protection. “What’s going on here, Ivan?” he challenged his older brother. I had never heard Alexander speak to Ivan in this manner.
Ivan whistled, smiling as he sauntered over to his little brother and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Why, nothing little brother,” he assured Alexander in a booming, jovial voice. “I was simply wishing Sonia good luck in the baking contest tomorrow. In fact,” he added. “I hope to be there personally to offer her moral support. Am I to understand that it’s being held at the old West Hartford Town Hall?” he inquired.
I slowly nodded my head. I was still clinging to Alexander’s arm. I managed to find my voice. “Is being starting at ten in morning. I make special Russian cake for entry,” I said softly, still afraid of him.
Ivan smiled at me knowingly. “Well, I think that I may have a client on the judging board,” he informed me warmly. “So, just consider what we discussed, Sonia. And remember, we will have tea together soon,” he promised with special emphasis.
Ivan looked at his watch. He then opened the front door, exiting 69 Keeney Avenue without another word. I hurried to the window and peered out through the curtains to get a view of the front lawn. Ivan had stopped at the small rose garden that Becky loved so much. He picked a beautiful red rose, holding it out towards the house as if he could see me right through the curtains.
Then he crushed the rose, letting the mangled petals blow away in the strong wind. With a smile, he put one finger to his lips in a secretive manner. I could tell that he was giving me a warning. Ivan Pavlovich then quickly walked to his Mercedes-Benz, got inside it and drove away.
I turned from the window to face Alexander. He was giving me a strange, intent look. I smiled weakly at him.
“Thank you,” I said.
“What did …” Alexander began.
“Thank you,” I repeated.
“Is there anything I can…” he tried to say.
“Thank you,” I said, gratefully and emphatically. I turned to go the kitchen. There was much I needed to do, not the least was to prepare dinner. But Alexander caught my hand, momentarily preventing me from leaving the living room.
“Thank you,” I said once more. I gave his hand a little squeeze, batting my eyes at him as we both smiled wordlessly. We gazed at each other for a moment more. I then dropped his hand and hurried to the kitchen to prepare the evening’s dinner.
The Zakuska herring and Pokhlobka potato soup came out well this time.
69 Keeney Avenue Page 4