The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  It was one of the finest in the city, and they were quite choosy in selecting their residents. They had been wary of renting to an American, and when George Cranston had contacted them, he had to do some talking to convince them to take Daniel. There were eight others in residence at the moment, although the house could hold a dozen. Besides Daniel, there was a law student, the son of a Russian diplomat; an Italian aristocrat in the import business; a maiden schoolteacher, an English woman who had come to Russia as a child with her diplomat father and decided to remain; a history professor at the university; a doctor; a construction engineer who was gone at the moment, working on the Trans-Siberian Railway; an elderly lady who never spoke of herself, but only seemed to crochet all day long; and last, but certainly far from least, Count Dmitri Remizov.

  The count had arrived in St. Petersburg virtually homeless. His family house had been leased out, and he couldn’t very well evict the residents on the spot. Knowing Remizov’s reputation, Daniel was reluctant to recommend him to the Durocqs, but he couldn’t permit the man to sleep on the streets, either. Once Madame Durocq met the count, however, he hardly needed Daniel’s recommendation, for Remizov thoroughly charmed her. The Durocqs were far less reluctant to accept him than they were the young American.

  Daniel smiled to himself as he reached his door. He simply had to give the man credit. As far as Daniel knew, Remizov hadn’t worked a day since their arrival. He was gone every night, and when Daniel chanced to see him when he returned home, he inevitably smelled of fine cigars and alcohol, with a hint of cheap perfume mixed in. The man was an absolute marvel.

  The voice that suddenly broke into Daniel’s reverie was so quiet it could hardly be startling. What took Daniel by surprise was that it belonged to the very person on whom his thoughts were focused.

  “Ah, Daniel, my friend, I thought it was you,” said Remizov. “But this is late, even for you.”

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” Daniel replied, but immediately saw the answer to his question. The count was fully dressed.

  “No, I only just returned home myself.”

  The count seemed unusually preoccupied, as if he had something on his mind but was reluctant to mention it.

  Daniel took the initiative, much to his regret. “Is everything all right, Count?”

  “Oh, yes . . . yes.” His tone lacked conviction. As if purposely stalling, he took his cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket, removing a cigarette. This he carefully fitted into a holder and set it between his lips. “May I have a light?” he asked, leaning toward the lamp. Daniel lifted the glass chimney and soon Remizov was puffing languidly at his smoke. “I don’t care what Madame Durocq says, I must have one, terrible habit that it is.”

  He puffed contentedly for a few moments, while Daniel, growing restless and desiring his bed, was considering taking his leave. He had opened his mouth to bid the count good-night when Remizov cut in.

  “You know, tomorrow I was planning to go south to see my daughter,” said the count. “How I have been looking forward to this moment!”

  If the man had been anticipating it that much, Daniel wondered, why had he waited so many months to do it? Perhaps he was simply reluctant because it had been so long since he had seen her. Then Daniel remembered his conversation with Count Vlasenko earlier. Should he say something? He was curious, but it really was none of his business, and, frankly, he was not eager to become involved in Remizov’s personal affairs. He kept quiet. But Remizov seemed determined to involve him anyway.

  “You are a friend, Daniel, so I can be frank with you, can I not?”

  “If you wish, but you don’t need to on my account.”

  Dmitri ignored Daniel’s disclaimer. “I am afraid I have met with a—how shall I say?—a slight setback in my plans.”

  “I am sorry. Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “I am embarrassed to admit it, but I find myself a little short of cash at the moment—ready cash, you know.” He sighed dramatically and swung his cigarette in a wide arc. “When will I ever learn of the folly of gambling?”

  “That is too bad. I hope it won’t interfere with your trip.”

  “And that is just what it will do, I am afraid. How can I visit my daughter, much less bring her home with me, if I have no ready means to support her? Later, of course, I would be able to convert some of my . . . ah . . . holdings into cash, but that takes time. And here I am, so anxious to see my little girl. I have not seen her since the day of her birth when her mother, my dear wife, died.” He set the holder to his lips and took a deep, melancholy puff.

  Daniel was young, but he was certainly not naive enough not to know when he was being touched upon for money. Part of him was perturbed; another part also felt sorry for the hapless count. Yet he couldn’t help recalling how Vlasenko had seemed so certain Remizov’s daughter had died at birth. What if Remizov had concocted the whole story in order to bilk an innocent foreigner out of his money? Still, what if there really was a daughter who had not seen her father for years, and, without Daniel’s help, might have to wait years more? How could he keep a poor child and her father apart? Besides, there might be a story in this; and, human interest though it might be, it was something to write about besides the dull political tidbits he had thus far been assigned.

  As much as he wanted to avoid getting involved, Daniel’s curiosity was piqued. But before he committed himself further to one of the count’s broad fabrications, he would get at the truth. After all, Archibald Trent, railroad and steel tycoon, and newspaper publisher, had not raised a fool.

  “Count Remizov,” Daniel said, “I am curious about something I heard tonight, if you don’t mind my asking a personal question.”

  “We are friends, no? Ask whatever you will.”

  “Your name came up in conversation tonight, and Count Vlasenko said he believed your daughter had died in childbirth along with your wife. Yet now you say you are about to be reunited with your child. . . .”

  Remizov did not hesitate with his reply. “Count Vlasenko has stated exactly what he, and all others, were supposed to believe. It is a very long story, however—hardly meant to be told at two o’clock in the morning, standing in a dark corridor. Suffice it to say, that for reasons of her safety it was imperative that her survival be kept a secret. Now the danger has passed, and she can be revealed to all. But first, I must see her. You do believe me, don’t you, Daniel?”

  “Well, it does sound . . . rather remarkable. But I can’t see why anyone would make up such a story.”

  “It is all true! Let my broken heart be a witness to it, and my joy when I will at last see my dear child.”

  “But then there is the matter of your cash flow problems.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You would like a small loan?”

  “Daniel, how decent of you to offer! You are a gentleman to be sure.”

  Daniel’s mind was nearly as devious as the count’s. But one of his weaknesses was to get carried away where his newspaper work was concerned. When he smelled a story he was apt to do anything to get it—a trait the city editor of the Register praised highly, but about which his father was less enthusiastic.

  “Listen, Count, I think I see a way we can both benefit from this situation.”

  “Both?”

  “Yeah. You need some cash, and I need a good story to send back home. If what you are telling me is true, I think my readers back home would be eager to hear about it—you know, expatriated Russian count returns home after long exile to be reunited with daughter. The American public eats up that kind of stuff.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Sure—romance, adventure . . . and I’ll bet there’s even a little intrigue to boot, if we look for it. It’ll entertain, but also inform my readers of aspects of Russian life after I throw in a few sidebars on culture and the like. Why, it has potential for serialization and syndication, and who knows what else!”

  “And you will pay me for this?” Dmitri was growi
ng interested.

  “The paper will front you a flat sum now—say, for a promise of four installments. If it goes beyond that we can renegotiate.”

  “What exactly might that sum be?”

  “How much do you need right now?”

  “That is difficult to—how do you Americans say?—nail down. If my daughter returns with me to St. Petersburg, I should wish only a small cushion—until, as I said, other resources are released. There will be living expenses, of course, and little girls need dresses and such frills, I am certain. But I do not wish to take advantage of our friendship. It is too important to me.” He puffed his cigarette thoughtfully. “No more, I am certain, than four hundred rubles.”

  Daniel’s eyebrows shot up at the amount. It was hardly a trifling sum—in American currency, at least two hundred dollars. A couple of months’ wages for a foreman in one of Union Steel’s foundries. But then again, Remizov was no factory worker; he was a count, and a count with expensive tastes!

  Daniel could afford the money—out of his own funds if necessary—but he had a feeling Cranston would eat this up. News had been slow lately and everyone was looking for a new angle.

  “Before you leave in the morning, Count, if you would come by my office, I will have a check prepared for you.”

  The count was appropriately appreciative. With tears brimming in his eyes, he embraced Daniel in the manner of the Russians, and then, French-style, kissed both his cheeks.

  They briefly discussed some further details of the arrangement, and Dmitri said with great emphasis, “I shall never forget this, my friend! You have made me so happy. To think, because of you, I shall see my daughter at long last.”

  30

  Sergei had just fed the stock and was exiting the barn when the luxurious coach drove into the yard of his home. The hens, pecking about the ground for the last bits of feed, scattered noisily as the vehicle, drawn by two sleek horses, pulled to a stop. Sergei immediately thought of Vlasenko and prepared himself for a confrontation. Over the years he had successfully steered clear of the count, his father’s cousin, but the trouble with Mariana and Stephan was still hanging over them unfinished, even though several months of silence had ensued since the incident.

  The driver, better dressed than any country coachman Sergei had ever seen, looked down his long nose at him.

  “I am looking for Anna Yevnovna Burenin,” said the coachman.

  Sergei tensed. No one had called Anna by that name in nearly twenty years. In Katyk, after their marriage, he was known as Sergei Ivanovich Christinin and Anna, of course, took that surname as her own. He used to joke with Anna that once he had been known as a prince, but now he would be known by the name of his Lord, the true Prince of Peace.

  And here was a complete stranger in a rich coach asking for Anna by her maiden name.

  “I am Sergei Ivanovich Christinin,” Sergei replied carefully. “The Burenins do not live here. Perhaps—”

  All at once the door to the coach burst open, and an elegantly dressed figure stepped out.

  “Sergei? It can’t be you! Not my old friend—but that voice is too familiar. Are you really alive?” The man paused to study the peasant standing before him. “You are my old friend, aren’t you? But dear me, I would never have recognized you except for your voice.”

  Sergei immediately recognized Dmitri, despite the fact that the last time he had seen him was nearly twenty years ago at Katrina’s wedding. Dmitri looked uncannily the same. Only a smattering of gray at his temples and a streak of it in the crown of his dark hair indicated the passage of years. Sergei, on the other hand, looked and felt ten years older than his forty-one years. His full beard and mustache covered and camouflaged any resemblance to his youth.

  These observations passed through Sergei’s mind in an instant before he embraced his friend in a welcoming bear hug. For a moment he forgot about the years of resentment toward this man who had abandoned the dear child Sergei now considered his own daughter. He had once loved Dmitri as a brother. They had fought and suffered in war together; they had laughed together and grown into men together. Such bonds were not easily dispelled.

  Dmitri uttered that lusty laugh Sergei knew so well and returned the embrace. “It is gratifying to know nothing has changed but your name—”

  “Count Remizov,” Sergei put in quickly before another mistake could endanger years of anonymity, “won’t you kindly come into my humble home to warm yourself? Perhaps your driver could put the horses up in my barn.”

  “I’ve only hired him from Pskov for the day.” Dmitri turned to the driver. “You can return; I’ve got to the right place.”

  “That will be one hundred kopecks, Your Excellency,” said the coachman, who jumped from his seat and began unloading Dmitri’s baggage.

  “Yes, of course.” Dmitri unfastened his linen coat and began patting and searching his pockets. “Well, how do you like that? I must have packed my wallet in my luggage. How about if I take care of you when I return to Pskov?”

  The driver set the last suitcase on the ground, then answered in as respectful a tone as he could, “I may not be available. It would be best if it could be settled now.”

  “I see what you mean . . .” Dmitri sighed and glanced at the four cases lined up in a neat row on the ground. “I’m not sure which one I left it in . . .”

  Then he turned to Sergei. “I hate to hold this poor fellow up out here in the cold, Sergei. Could you front the money and I will repay you as soon as I can get into those cases?”

  Sergei gaped, momentarily speechless, at this glib request. In the old days he had more than once paid cab fares for Dmitri, who was always short of cash, but he realized with stunning impact that this was no longer the old days. Even if he had a hundred kopecks in cash, it would be desperately needed to care for his family’s needs. He was not the same man he once was, even if Dmitri appeared to be.

  “I am sorry, Count,” he said, “but I haven’t got that much—”

  “Don’t give it a thought,” said Dmitri graciously. “I don’t know what could have prompted me to pack that wallet away.” He made another show of searching his pockets. Then his face lit up with success. “Ah, ha! Here it is, hiding in my inside coat pocket all the while. There you go, my man.” He handed the driver the money.

  The driver counted the money carefully before swinging back up into his seat in the coach and driving off.

  Sergei took three of Dmitri’s cases, while Dmitri took the smallest one. “My back,” he explained apologetically. “It’s been playing the devil with me since South America. Ah, Sergei, if you thought Bulgaria was hell, you should have seen the Amazon. It makes our campaigns in the Balkans seem a picnic.”

  Keeping up a steady flow of one-sided conversation, Dmitri ducked into the little izba. His voice faltered a moment as he took in the obvious poverty, seeming to realize for the first time that his friend’s economic plight was real, and not a mere sham to fool the authorities.

  Not until his eyes adjusted to the dim light of indoors did he notice Anna seated at a table with nine-year-old Yuri, an open book before them. Their eyes met, and both faces filled with instant recognition. Sergei, who followed Dmitri in, saw something quite foreign fill Anna’s gentle eyes—a chilly look of disdain, mingled with dismay. If Dmitri saw this, he ignored it, picking up the former stride of his dialogue with effusive greetings for Anna.

  “My dear, dear Anna!” He held out his hands to her as if they were brother and sister, a warm grin on his handsome face. “Why, look at you, as pretty as ever!”

  Anna stood, took his hands stiffly, and spoke with cool formality.

  “Count Remizov! What an unexpected surprise.”

  “I was always so shamefully poor at letter-writing. I hope you can forgive me for barging in on you like this. Anyway, after so long, a letter is so woefully inadequate, don’t you think?”

  Anna’s cheeks flamed, and Sergei knew it was not from embarrassment or surprise. His dear, meek w
ife was about to unleash eighteen years of pent-up anger. To spare her what he was certain she would later regret, he quickly interceded.

  “You have taken us a bit off guard, Dmitri,” Sergei said calmly. “A letter might not have been all that inappropriate. But what’s done is done. Anna, could you draw some tea for us, so we can all sit down and talk?”

  Anna took a breath, then nodded demurely and did her husband’s bidding. She seemed much more at ease when she returned to the table with three glasses of tea.

  “Yuri,” said Sergei, “would you let our guest have your chair? Your mama will finish with your lessons later.”

  “This fine lad can’t be your son, Sergei? And yours, Anna?” Dmitri tousled the boy’s hair, then noticed Andrei who, curious, had approached the group from where he had been playing in another corner of the house. “And not this one, too!” laughed Dmitri. “You young gentlemen must make your parents proud.”

  “Please sit down, Count Remizov, before the tea cools,” said Anna.

  When they had settled themselves, Dmitri took a sip of his tea. “Ah, I have had tea from the four corners of the earth, but there is nothing like good Russian tea in a peasant cottage.”

  Sergei wondered if Dmitri had ever been in a peasant cottage, much less sat down to tea, but he said nothing. There were far more important things to discuss.

  “It sounds as if you have done some traveling in the years since we last saw you, Dmitri,” he said.