The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Yes, he’d look into the status of Viktor’s son. He would also investigate that servant a bit more. He might only be a nervous revolutionary, but that, too, was Cyril’s business.

  69

  The last time Mariana had seen Daniel was when he came to tell her Stephan had been forced to go to Geneva. She supposed she had agreed to see him that time because she was curious and concerned about his message, which mentioned he had some bad news.

  “I am sorry for intruding upon you like this, Mariana, but I thought you’d want to hear this personally rather than in a letter.”

  After Daniel related the information about Stephan, she told him she appreciated his thoughtfulness; then they exchanged a few minutes of light conversation, and he left. Later, she was angry with herself for allowing her pride to stand in the way. She had been about to pour out what was in her heart, telling him how she had missed him and wanted to forgive him. But just at that moment, the maid entered, inquiring if they would like tea. Daniel had said he really needed to go. And that was it. The opportunity was lost.

  For days afterward, she had been miserable, realizing that she had indeed lost both men she cared for. At first she blamed herself; then she faced it realistically and admitted that they all had made mistakes. And, unfortunately, those mistakes had been enough to create an irreparable rift.

  Though both Stephan and Daniel had been a part of her life, that was now over. She must look ahead. And when she did, she saw nothing but promise and adventure. School was going well; her first midterm exams were coming up, and she felt confident. Countess Eugenia had not nagged her so much after her father had stood up to his mother. She still had a full schedule of society parties to attend, but she didn’t mind because it kept her from thinking too much about Stephan and Daniel.

  Several times after Daniel’s visit she had thought about going to see him. But she was afraid of throwing herself at him only to be rejected again. What if her initial supposition had been true, and he had only befriended her in the first place in order to get his article? He had seemed so cool and detached during that last visit. It did vaguely occur to her that his own feelings might have been wounded at her previous rebuffs, that he, too, was afraid of further rejection. But Daniel wasn’t afraid of anything, was he? Either he had stopped caring for her, or he had never cared in the first place.

  Then why would Daniel come see her now, only two weeks after his last visit? Surely even he realized there was nothing left to recapture between them.

  She told the maid to tell him to wait in the main parlor and she’d be right down. She hesitated a moment before deciding not to arrange for tea to be served. After the maid left, Mariana glanced in the mirror. She still had her school clothes on—a plain brown wool skirt, ecru linen blouse with lace at the neck and cuffs, sensible high-topped leather walking shoes, and a tweed blazer. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, clasped with a tortoise shell barrette.

  “Well,” she murmured to herself, “it will have to do. I no longer have a desire to beguile him anyway.”

  But as she entered the parlor a few minutes later and saw Daniel gazing intently into the crackling fire in the hearth, something happened inside Mariana. Her head became light, her body tingled, and her mouth went dry. Her medical training would have told her that these were purely physical manifestations and had nothing to do with her state of mind or emotions. Yet she could not deny that he still stirred something in her. Not even Stephan had been able to do that in their last meetings.

  She wondered if she had given up on Daniel too quickly. She had been taught forgiveness by her parents; they had always tried to give a person a second chance, at least they always had done so with her when she had made mistakes. Daniel had used her and thereby hurt her and wounded the love she had begun to offer him. But could she be so certain that all his interest and caring was an act? He had been so repentant; could some of that have been real?

  At the sound of the door opening, Daniel turned to face her. Mariana’s emotions churned even more.

  If he had come to win her over, she determined she would give him another chance this time.

  “Again, I come unannounced,” he said.

  “Perhaps if the Countess Eugenia would see her way to install one of those telephone gadgets, we would no longer have that problem.”

  “Yes, they can be handy. My father has one.”

  “Would you care to sit down, Daniel?” she asked, indicating a chair.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He was being so formal, so reserved. She sat down, wishing she had ordered tea. Was it too late?

  “I don’t want to take up your time,” Daniel said. “I know how busy you are with your studies and all.”

  “Don’t give it a thought, really.”

  “Well, what you are doing is important, Mariana. Don’t let anyone try to tell you differently. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Daniel. That . . . that means a lot to me.”

  After an awkward pause, Mariana added, “Would you like some tea?” She realized after she said it that she shouldn’t have asked; she should have just ordered it. Again, too late.

  “No, that’s not necessary. It’s kind of you to ask, though.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “Mariana, I just wanted to say goodbye.” He blurted out the words in a rush, as if he were afraid he might not be able to say them.

  She stared at him, her mouth open, not quite certain if she had heard right. But his face mirrored the truth. What did it mean? Was he going somewhere, on another assignment? Or, was this the end—the very end—of their relationship? He sounded so final.

  She let out a heavy sigh. “You’re leaving on another assignment?”

  “No, I’m returning to America. My father is ill.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry to hear that.” She was suddenly sorry for so much, and she could not put any of it into words.

  “I leave tomorrow.”

  “So . . . so soon?”

  “It’s a long journey. I only hope that he doesn’t . . . well, that he doesn’t die before I get there.”

  “I will pray for you, Daniel. I’ll pray that everything goes well, that he is better when you get there.”

  “Would you?” It wounded Mariana that he seemed so surprised.

  “Oh, yes! I’ll pray every day.”

  Their eyes met for a brief moment. He looked so lost, so confused, not at all like the arrogant, exciting man he usually was. She wanted to comfort him, hug him as a mother would a child; she sensed he needed that now. But of course, she couldn’t.

  “I’d better be going,” said Daniel, getting to his feet. “I have a lot of packing yet to do.”

  Mariana stood up, her mind flooded with remorse for her past actions toward him. Why had she been so hard on him? Now it was too late. He was leaving, going thousands of miles away. Would she ever see him again? She had to ask the question.

  “Daniel, will you ever come back to Russia?”

  “It’s hard to say. I’ve made myself invaluable to Cranston now that I know the language and the country so well.” Mariana almost smiled at the familiar cockiness of his tone; she realized that was probably one of the things she liked about him, even though it made her angry sometimes. Daniel went on. “Of course, if the worst happens . . . to my father, that is . . . I may have to stay in America and do my share in running the business.”

  “I—I will miss you!” She blurted out, before logic or awkwardness prevented her.

  “When I first arrived in Russia two years ago,” Daniel said, “I was talking to a friend about missing home, and he told me that perhaps the time would come when I’d feel similar emotions about leaving Russia. It sounded extraordinary to me at the time, but he was right. I am going to miss so much about this place. I am going to miss you, too, Mariana. I wish I could have been a better friend to you.”

  “Maybe someday you’ll have a second chance.”

  “Maybe.” He d
idn’t sound so sure. His tone was wistful, filled with melancholy. It was one of the few times he wasn’t sure about something.

  He took her hand in his, and the contact sent an electric thrill up Mariana’s arm. He held it for a moment, then gently let go.

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Daniel. Godspeed!”

  Then he was gone. Mariana felt the emptiness of his absence more profoundly than she thought possible. In fact, now that she was being honest with herself, it hurt even more than the news of Stephan’s departure.

  Odd, how things turn out. There was far more possibility of her seeing Stephan again and of renewing what they once had, what she had wanted for years. But that wasn’t what she wished for any longer. The desire of her heart was walking out of her life, probably forever. For a brief, wild moment she thought of running after him.

  But what good would it do? How could they promise each other anything when the future was so uncertain? She took a deep, steadying breath, crossed herself, and prayed. This was best left in God’s hands. The future was not uncertain to Him.

  70

  Anna went to the marketplace by St. Andrew’s Church. She bought some potatoes, turnips, and a few pounds of flour. When her basket was full, she discovered she had a few pennies left, so she decided to stop at the church.

  It was time she lit a candle of thanksgiving. She was thankful for so many things—for the home that Raisa had opened up to Anna and her family, not even batting an eye when Viktor and Mrs. Remington and Peter also moved in temporarily. The woman walked around in awe that such a person as Prince Viktor Fedorcenko would grace her humble home with his presence. She still could not believe that he and the simple peasants, Anna and Sergei, were related.

  That reminded Anna of another matter for thanksgiving. Except for Raisa, who could be trusted implicitly, Sergei’s anonymity was still intact. Questions had been raised by the police about the man who had talked Prince Viktor into surrendering his siege of the estate. When they saw him, however, they assumed he was a beloved servant whose entreaties Viktor could not refuse. Since no charges were ever pressed, there was never any need for further investigation. Anna was also grateful that Cyril Vlasenko never pressed charges, and that he, who might possibly identify him, never had a clear look at Sergei.

  But Anna’s gratitude was also directed toward deeper miracles, such as the wonderful healing of Prince Viktor. He was a quiet man now, not as self-confident, more deeply scarred than the mighty prince Anna had known twenty years ago. His mind was apt to wander occasionally. But he was whole; he was more thoughtful, and quicker to express his heart. And Anna guessed that Sarah Remington now possessed a very large part of that man’s heart.

  And, finally, there was the healing of Viktor and Sergei’s relationship. The two could actually talk now, the first time Anna had ever seen them interact without tension and frustration. The most marvelous turning point came when Viktor had asked Sergei if he still did any writing. Sergei showed him a couple of poems he had written; and Viktor came back a few hours later with a drawing to illustrate one of the poems that had especially touched him. For the first time in his life, Viktor truly understood his son’s creative drive.

  Anna placed her basket in the crook of her arm and headed toward the church. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she hardly noticed the bustle of activity around her—the crowd at the market kiosks, the traffic jam in the street, and the accompanying shouts of drivers and pedestrians alike. When one voice raised above the others, she almost did not respond.

  “Anna?”

  There must have been at least a dozen Annas on the street that day; why would anyone be calling her? Yet it was persistent.

  “Anna!” The voice drew closer. “Anna? Is that you?”

  She lifted her head and turned toward the sound. Someone was running toward her—a middle-aged man of average height, dressed in a modest brown suit, a well-worn overcoat flying out behind him, a dark fur hat on his head.

  “Anna, it is you!”

  Then she knew. The man might have changed, but the voice was still that of her dear little brother, Pavushka.

  Stunned, she dropped her basket, but seemed oblivious to the fact. She couldn’t move; she could only stare, speechless, until he reached her. At that moment all the shock fell away, replaced by pure joy. She ran into his arms, engulfing him in an embrace. And he responded with all the vibrancy and warmth and love she had longed for. The tense, haunted lad who had so mordantly declared that he was dead to his family was very much alive—in body and heart. The Pavushka of her fondest memories now stood once more before her.

  He actually laughed. “What a scene we are making!”

  “We must look like two long-lost lovers!” Anna chuckled, then turned serious. “It’s all right, I mean, if you are noticed?”

  Paul shrugged. “I don’t think I am a wanted man at the moment.” To her confused expression, he grinned. “It’s fine, it truly is.”

  “I can’t believe that we should meet by chance like this,” said Anna.

  “Perhaps it was not as much by chance as it appears.” Paul wore a sheepish expression. “Not long ago, I heard from a mutual friend of ours that you were still here in the city. I confess that since then I have come by this church many times.”

  “You were looking for me?”

  “In my own way, I suppose I was. I wanted so to see you, but I was a bit afraid. It has been so many years.”

  “Never so many that my love for you would ever change, Pavushka.”

  He smiled with gratitude, his eyes as moist as his sister’s. “I have a coach waiting,” he said. “Will you come home with me so we can talk?”

  “Yes, of course. Let me get my basket.”

  Paul helped her gather her spilled groceries; then they went to the waiting cab. In five minutes they were at his house on the waterfront.

  “Paul, this is incredible. I live only a few blocks from here!”

  “We were bound to meet eventually!”

  Inside, Anna was greeted by another delightful surprise—Paul’s wife. Mathilde smiled joyfully at Anna and seemed to know who she was even before Paul had a chance to make introductions. Her natural reserve caused her to hesitate in her desire to embrace her sister-in-law, but no such reserve hindered Anna. She threw her arms around Mathilde, and at once they were sisters.

  Paul and Anna talked for the next two hours, filling in the years of their lives since that day they had last seen each other at St. Andrew’s. They shared every detail until they began to feel as if they had actually been present and part of each other’s lives. They wept a great deal, and gazed at each other, marveling at how the years had been imprinted upon them in various ways.

  “But, Anna, you look as if time has truly forgotten you,” Paul said.

  Anna chuckled. “Then your eyes must be failing you, Paul, if you don’t see all the wrinkles!”

  “Failing sight is one of God’s blessings as you grow older, I suppose. Who needs to see all the wrinkles, anyway?”

  Anna grew thoughtful. “Paul, did you say ‘one of God’s blessings’? Do you really mean that?”

  “I have traveled a long road, Anna—filled with hardships and trials and heartache, along with an equal portion of blessings and miracles. I can no longer deny the existence of God, though my knowledge of God and my relationship to Him may never compare with yours or Papa’s or Mama’s. Perhaps one day I will know God as you do, but in the meantime, I am no longer foolish enough to believe He doesn’t exist or matter. I have a feeling you have never ceased praying for me, Anna, in all these years. And I will not object to your continued prayers.”

  “Not that your objections would stop me.” Anna smiled.

  “I thought not!”

  Mathilde brought tea as they continued talking. Eventually their conversation turned toward the future.

  “I miss the country,” said Anna, “but I must admit that now that I am in the city, I recall the many opportun
ities it presents—at least now that we are out of the awful flat in the Haymarket and that terrible factory.”

  “I remember that life,” said Paul. “It was my lot when I first came to the city years ago.”

  “Our cause aims to change such circumstances,” put in Mathilde.

  “I can now wholeheartedly support that cause,” said Anna.

  “You, dear sister!” exclaimed Paul with mock astonishment. “You are no longer a meek and naive peasant girl, without a political thought in your head?”

  “I can’t say I will be joining any demonstrations,” Anna replied. “But I know now more than ever just what it is all about. I have seen firsthand the tragedies our system of government has produced, and I can’t say I will be heartbroken for change to come. Still, I believe true change must begin in the hearts of individuals. And that kind of change can only come through faith in Christ.”

  “You may be right, of course,” said Paul. “You always did have more sense than I. But I see no conflict between faith and actively fighting for reform, if the latter is kept within the bounds of morality. Have you heard of Thomas Jefferson, Anna?”

  “Wasn’t he an American president? He wrote the Declaration of Independence.”

  “Yes, and he also wrote that ‘Resistance to tyrants is obedience to God.’”

  “I cannot argue with that, Paul, but then again, I could never debate you very well.”

  “You read the wrong kind of books.”

  “Or the right kind.”

  He smiled.

  “Paul, I suppose my only reason for trying to argue with you in the first place,” Anna continued, “is that I fear you will get into trouble again. Now that I have found you, I couldn’t bear for you to disappear again.”

  “I am afraid, Anna, that trouble is part and parcel of the path I have chosen. Even the most benign protester risks a great deal. I told you about Mathilde’s father. If a man like that can be destroyed by the government, then what I risk isn’t even near to being enough.”