The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

Sergei had not returned to the home of his youth in twenty years. He had not even ventured near the place for a brief look. Perhaps, instead of dwelling on the past like his father, he had been guilty of trying to ignore it.

  But memories of that final day were still painful to him. His last words to his father were as vivid to him now as when he had bitterly leveled them:

  “Goodbye, Father. You are finally rid of me. . . . If you are lucky, I will catch a Tatar bullet and not return!”

  He could still feel his father’s stunned silence. If only he had bothered to look into the man’s eyes then, he might have perceived the awful inner pain that had contributed, as much as anything, to his father’s mental breakdown. Would Sergei have embraced the man as his heart had longed to do? Probably not. Sergei had been far too stubborn and proud then; it took a severe breaking of his own to bring him to repentance. And by then, it had been too late to help his father. Sergei would always carry with him the scars from that failure.

  Sergei had shaved off his beard, hoping his father was not too far gone to recognize him. He had decided to enter the house by the front door, in full view of the desperate man holed up inside. He reached the door unscathed. If Viktor was watching, he must have recognized him. Twenty years of aging were undoubtedly carved upon Sergei’s face, but without the full peasant beard, he looked more youthful, more like the young man who had walked away from this house in bitter anger.

  Before setting his hand on the latch, Sergei instinctively glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t see Anna, who was seated in a carriage with Mrs. Remington just outside the gates, but it was reassuring at least to know she was near and praying for him. He tried not to think of the police and Vlasenko, who were also waiting outside the gates. But, if he were recognized, then so be it. His father’s welfare came first.

  He turned the latch.

  “Papa!” he called as he entered. Sergei had not called his father papa since he was ten years old, when Viktor informed him that soldiers did not use such childish words.

  He walked through the entryway, the musty smells of long disuse hovering all around. But Sergei barely noticed the cold, damp air. Instead, he recalled the smells and warmth and sounds of the past. Katrina’s lively vitality and hearty laugh . . . his mother’s fragile grace and gentle voice . . . himself, as a boy, playing hide-and-seek in the wide corridors. Memories surged around him like wraiths; he felt as if he had stepped out of reality and entered Viktor’s fantasy world.

  “Papa, it’s me, Sergei!” he called as he mounted the wide, curving stairway.

  He looked in the rooms that fronted the house, thinking that Viktor would have been keeping watch for intruders. They were empty of human inhabitants, but filled with more haunting memories. In one room, he found a pistol lying on the floor; leaving it where he found it, he continued his search.

  He should have gone to his mother’s room first, but that only occurred to him as logic failed. Sergei found Viktor sitting on Natalia’s pink divan, holding in his hands a ruffled pillow covered with satin and lace.

  “Papa.”

  Viktor’s head jerked up, a frown twitching his brow.

  “Sergei, you are back. We must tell your mother. She’ll be so glad.”

  “Papa, we can’t—”

  “Nonsense. Why, she would never forgive us if we didn’t. Come along.” He jumped up, sending a cloud of dust into the air. “Confound that Nina for not keeping up her duties.”

  Still holding the pillow, Viktor hurried out of the room. Sergei followed him. At Katrina’s room, Viktor paused, then went in, muttering that Natalia was probably visiting their daughter. The room was as still and dusty as Natalia’s pink and rose boudoir. Sergei was about to attempt to reason with his father again when it occurred to him just to watch.

  “Natalia, are you here?” Viktor called. When no answer came, he ambled about the room as if he were waiting for a summons. Every now and then he would pause, look at something, smile or frown, then move on. He picked up a doll sitting with several others on a shelf. Sergei remembered Anna’s story of how Katrina, in a frenzied attempt to grow up, had redecorated her room, hurting many feelings as she thoughtlessly crated up all signs of her childhood. Such impulsiveness was so like Katrina, but she had later repented—also so like his sister.

  Viktor moved on to another shelf. He picked up a book, an ornately bound Bible, and blew a layer of dust from its surface.

  “She thought the maid had taken it,” Viktor muttered. “She felt so bad when she found out I had it all along. I wonder if she ever knew how much it hurt me that she’d tossed it in a box of cast-offs. I chose it myself and gave it to her for Easter when she was six years old. She always wanted me to read to her from it. I did sometimes, but often I was too busy. . . .” He hugged the book to his chest, along with Natalia’s pillow. “I’m sorry I didn’t find more time. . . .”

  “No one blames you, Papa,” said Sergei, his voice choking with emotion.

  Viktor looked at Sergei as if seeing him for the first time. “How can that be?”

  “Because we love you, Papa.” Tears welled up in Sergei’s eyes.

  “I will apologize to them. It’s not too late—”

  “Papa—”

  “No! There’s still a chance—” Viktor rushed out of the room. “Natalia . . . Natalia!”

  For a moment Sergei was frozen in place, unable to move because of the burden of pain he bore for his father. The echoing of Viktor’s pathetic shouts in the hall seared Sergei’s mind and soul. Oh, God! he cried within himself. But when he tried to form a more complete prayer, his mind would not focus—all he could hear was the melancholy voice of his once-strong, once-idolized father.

  “Natalia . . . Katrina . . . Sergei . . .”

  Sergei feared the man had finally gone over that terrible precipice that had been looming before him for the last twenty years. It had been too much for him to face the past. Maybe it was better ignored.

  God, is there no hope for my papa? Sergei wept.

  “Natalia . . .”

  Woodenly, Sergei left Katrina’s sitting room. He was afraid to continue following his father, but he knew he must. He went in the direction of the ghastly echo. But as he rounded a corridor he heard a crash, and Viktor’s cries stopped.

  Sergei found his father crumpled on the floor, a table knocked over and the shards of a broken vase scattered around him. At first Sergei thought that Viktor, in his blind irrationality, had merely bumped into a table. Then Sergei’s eyes strayed to the wall behind Viktor and saw what must have disturbed his father—a family portrait.

  Sergei vividly recalled the time they had spent sitting for it. He had been fourteen, and though having to sit still for hours was sheer misery, he had anticipated the three days spent on the project because it had meant rare uninterrupted time with his busy father.

  As if reading his thoughts, Viktor said, “They won’t answer me . . . they won’t forgive me.”

  “That’s not true,” said Sergei. “We forgive you.” He dropped on his knees beside his father and grasped his shoulders in his hands. “I forgive you, Papa.” He looked deep into Viktor’s haunted eyes. “Do you hear? I forgive you!”

  Slowly Viktor’s eyes focused. And for the first time in years those eyes saw, not a bitter twenty-four-year-old youth languishing in cruel exile, but a man of forty-three, whose own eyes were filled with love and mercy and forgiveness.

  “Dear God! Sergei, my son.”

  “Papa!”

  They fell into each other’s arms, weeping and sobbing. Neither could speak for some time.

  At last Viktor said in a raw, shaky voice, “They’re dead, Sergei. My Natalia is dead . . . my Katrina is dead.”

  “I know, Papa.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “You’ve just done the hardest part, Papa. Now you can grieve for them—we can grieve together.” Sergei picked up the Bible and the pillow and placed them before Viktor. “We can remember them .
. . remember how much they loved us.”

  “The pain . . . I don’t know if I can stand the pain,” said Viktor.

  “I’ll be here to help you. And Papa, there are others, too. You have grandchildren, and Mrs. Remington, and Anna. You won’t be alone.”

  “I never was alone, Sergei . . . was I?”

  “Would you like to see them now?”

  Viktor looked down at his disheveled appearance, felt his reddened eyes and tear-streaked face, and experienced momentary shame. “I—I don’t think I ought to . . . not like this—” Then he stopped and shook his head with a frightening violence. “My pride will someday be the death of me. I have already put them off for too long. Take me to them, Sergei. Let them see the man I really am.”

  “Papa, that’s the only man we have ever wanted to see!”

  Father and son helped each other up, and together they walked down the corridor and outside into the sunlit day.

  67

  Viktor sat on the front porch of Raisa Sorokin’s house, a sketchbook in his lap, a tray of pens, inks, and pastels by his side. He was bundled in a warm coat; a chilly autumn breeze had come up an hour ago, bringing gray, overcast skies.

  This was a new experience for him, drawing city streets instead of Crimean country scenes. But he was finding that he enjoyed it almost as much. The nuances of a dingy building were far different than that of a tree or a rose garden or the sea, his favorite subject. But the hard lines of these buildings contained their own kind of vitality, even passion.

  “Grandpapa,” said his ten-year-old grandson, Yuri, who had come up behind him, “why do you have these?” He pointed to the pastels in the tray.

  “For my drawing,” said Viktor.

  “But everything is so gray today.”

  It was true. The afternoon was dull and gray, the sky an endless mass of clouds. The buildings and street, too, seemed but a darker continuation of this.

  Viktor put his arm around the boy and drew him closer. “I suppose it all depends on how you look at it, Yuri.” He glanced at his ink sketch of the street scene: the house across the way, forming the backdrop with its tiny yard, and an open gate through which a woman and child were emerging onto the street.

  “Look at this,” said Viktor. He took a blue pastel and highlighted a vase sitting on a windowsill inside the house; then he touched the small scarf around the child’s neck. He took a light brown pastel and brushed it over the woman’s scarf and a broken bottle in the street. With a slightly darker brown, he added color to the branches of the elm tree in the yard, and finally, with burnt sienna and yellow, touched leaves of the trees.

  “I hadn’t noticed all that,” said Yuri.

  “That’s so easy to do, my boy, so very easy . . .”

  Viktor was seeing a great deal differently these days. Morose moods were still apt to attack him now and then, but not often enough to keep him fixated on the dim gray areas of his life. The little children were an immense gift to him, and brought him more joy than he probably had a right to.

  The true turning point for Viktor had come a week after Sergei had helped him from the old house. Cyril Vlasenko had “generously” given them a week so that Viktor might have a chance to recover from that ordeal; then he wanted to meet in order to sign the necessary papers for the sale of the property.

  Everyone had been extremely worried about Viktor facing that moment. Sergei offered to go in his stead. Sarah had suggested they pick up the papers and sign them in private; there was no need for Vlasenko, or anyone, to be present. But Viktor shook his head—not stubbornly, but rather with resolution. He was through running away, through hiding. The past was behind him; not forgotten, but not a monster clawing at his mind, either. But if the past were to remain in its proper place, he must also embrace the future with realism and hope.

  So Viktor went to Vlasenko’s office at the ministry of Internal Affairs, in the massive building, overlooking St. Petersburg’s Chain Bridge.

  “Come in, Viktor,” said Vlasenko. He was polite, excessively so, as he offered Viktor a chair and a glass of brandy.

  Viktor accepted the chair but refused the brandy.

  “I am glad to see you are . . . well,” Vlasenko went on. “I hope you understand that I would never have imposed upon you at this time, but you know how paperwork is—it waits for nothing.”

  “I understand a great deal, Count Vlasenko,” said Viktor quietly.

  “Ah . . . yes, of course.” Vlasenko seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Was he actually feeling awkward over the situation? Certainly not over the fact that he had trampled over a man when he was down, and then proceeded to rob him blind.

  “Are the papers ready to be signed?” asked Viktor. Emotionally, it had been necessary for him to come here, but he surely didn’t need to linger any longer than was necessary to get the business done.

  “We can at least take comfort in the knowledge that the property will remain in the family,” said Vlasenko as he took a sheaf of papers from a desk drawer.

  “Where do I sign?”

  Vlasenko took a gulp of his brandy, then pointed his stubby finger at several places on the documents.

  Viktor signed each one, fully aware that when he finished, the great estate that had passed down from father to son for nearly three generations was no longer Fedorcenko property. He would never pass it on to his son and grandson. He was also keenly cognizant of the sickening fact that it now belonged to his despised second cousin, Cyril Vlasenko.

  But as he scratched his name on the final paper, he suddenly felt good, not devastated as he had feared. Parting with the property was not like parting with his life, or even with the lives of those he loved. He had clung to that property in his insanity, and almost lost everything else. Now, in letting it go, he realized he still had everything that was truly important.

  All Vlasenko had was a hunk of earth and mortar.

  Viktor’s family was surprised when he returned home that afternoon carrying a bouquet of chrysanthemums and a serenely peaceful look upon his face. Later, Sarah came upon Viktor drawing a color still-life of the flowers.

  “I am so happy for you, Viktor,” she said.

  He took her hand in his. “Have I ever thanked you for not giving up on me?”

  “You are thanking me now.”

  Impulsively he kissed her hand, then immediately became flustered. “I’m sorry, Sarah, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Viktor.” She smiled the most beautiful smile at him.

  Yes, the future was much brighter these days, filled with the promise of color and contentment. He understood better how Sergei felt about the merits of the simple life. A man did not need much to be happy. And now Viktor knew he had what he wanted.

  68

  “Are you certain you don’t wish to press charges?” asked the police chief.

  He and Cyril Vlasenko were seated in the chief’s office at police headquarters. The chief had a sheaf of paperwork he had to complete regarding the recent incident at the Fedorcenko estate. Cyril wanted to be as helpful as possible. No sense in aggravating the chief, who might then be spurred into investigating too closely. Cyril felt fairly secure in his position, but he had committed a crime or two in the machinations that brought Viktor down. He had what he wanted now, so there was no sense jeopardizing that for any more petty fulfillment.

  “No, no,” said Cyril expansively. “The man has troubles enough without that. Besides, he is family.”

  “That was a generous gesture on your part, Count Vlasenko, purchasing the property so it might remain in the family.”

  “What else could I do?”

  “That lunatic did almost shoot you.”

  “True, but I am not a vindictive man.” Cyril threaded his fat fingers across his broad midriff.

  “You are fortunate that servant came along to calm the old man down.”

  Cyril nodded. He had been fortunate, indeed. He had even felt inclined to thank the man, but the ser
vant had slipped away so quickly after the incident. Cyril had thought at the time that was rather odd. Servants are always eager to get strokes from their masters, and perhaps some monetary awards. Had the man been nervous because of the presence of the police? Could Viktor have a fugitive in his employ?

  Now that he recalled the situation, Cyril remembered something else about the servant that had disturbed him. Viktor had embraced the man in a most familiar way, not at all in keeping with Viktor’s usual stoic character. Of course, Viktor was hardly himself anymore, but still it was peculiar. And he had looked at the servant with—well, with frank and open affection. Cyril certainly would never have dreamed of looking at a servant in that way, but even Viktor, with all his liberal ideas, had never been that close to his servants. Why, he hadn’t even looked at that English housekeeper of his in that way, and she must have been with the man for twenty-five years or more.

  Later that same day, Cyril ruminated once more over the scene at the Fedorcenko estate.

  Something about it continued to nag him. Just who was that servant? And what was it about the whole thing that bothered Cyril so? Could his natural policeman’s instinct be trying to tell him something? But what did it matter, anyway? He had what he wanted from Viktor. He had brushed aside thoughts of trying to get the Crimean property, too. That would be a low blow, even for him. Regardless, Cyril barely had enough money now to hang on to the St. Petersburg estate. He was too smart to allow his greed to consume him.

  Yet his driving need to control people and events would not let him drop the unsettledness about the servant. Viktor had always been so upright and beyond reproach in his public and personal life. That had been one of the problems in trying to bring the man to his knees. The only real scandal against him was that business with his son, but that had all been on the public record. You can’t blackmail a man with something that isn’t a secret.

  Sergei Fedorcenko had to be dead by now. No one could survive twenty years in the Kara mines. It might bear looking into, though. Of what use such information might be, Cyril didn’t know, but he was a man who prided himself on being a storehouse of both useful and trivial information. It was amazing, over the years, how often such things had been useful to him.