‘Andrei –’ Anna began.
His good hand moved, swiftly, a cold finger lifted and laid briefly upon her mouth. ‘No, Anna. No. Say nothing.’ He was, she sensed now, though nothing in his voice or his demeanour proclaimed it, very drunk indeed. ‘That’s best, isn’t it? Say absolutely nothing. That way you’re safe. And that’s what we must do, above all things. Keep Anna safe.’
He turned abruptly from her, went into the work room, walking quickly towards the door.
‘Andrei!’
The tone of her voice stopped him in his tracks. He stood for a moment, quite still, his back to her, his hand on the door handle, his narrow shoulders slightly and defensively hunched before, slowly, he turned back.
Her eyes searched his face and for that one moment he allowed it, making no attempt to shield himself. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked after a very long moment, softly.
‘Nothing.’ His obstinate calm was totally at odds with the tension that rang between them like a bell. ‘Absolutely nothing. We’re going to say nothing, and do nothing. That way –’
‘Anna will be safe,’ she finished for him, bleakly.
‘Yes.’ He turned again, leaving her.
She lifted her chin, sharply. ‘And if I don’t want to be safe?’
Never in a long life did she know what prompted those quick, defiant words.
She heard the break in the rhythm of his footsteps upon the stone stairs, heard it resume again, steady and clear. She ran to the door. He was already a flight above her.
‘Andrei!’
He turned; slight, poised, graceful, distant. ‘Come, Anna,’ he said, ‘Christ is risen. Indeed He is risen. They’re waiting for us.’
He led the way up to the apartment, Anna following silently behind.
* * *
‘Volodya’s in love with you!’ Margarita squealed with laughter and ducked as Anna shied a cushion at her, half-heartedly. ‘He is! Anyone could see it! He mooned around behind you like a – like a lovesick calf!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rita. Go to sleep.’
‘I can’t. I’m not in the least bit tired. Wasn’t Uncle Andrei funny? I didn’t know he could do silly tricks like that.’
‘No. Neither did I.’
‘It was a shame he couldn’t stay to hear you play. Is he coming to Aunt Zhenia’s tomorrow?’
‘No. He has other plans.’
‘You should ask Volodya.’ Margarita giggled from beneath the bedclothes. ‘He’d come like a shot.’
‘Rita!’
But it was true. That poor Vladimir appeared to have lost his heart and his good sense all at one go had been painfully obvious to everyone. He had trailed behind Anna all day; she had fallen over his feet every time she had turned around. He it had been who had prevailed upon her to play for them all; with the predictable result that Andrei had excused himself, gracefully and perfectly believably, and left. And with him the light had gone from the day. Whatever she felt for him – however wrong it might be – she could no longer lie to herself. A room without Andrei in it was empty indeed, and held neither joy nor laughter.
But he was her uncle. Her father’s brother. It was wicked to feel so. Wicked! She brushed her hair fiercely, tugging painfully.
‘I suppose Katya has some marvellous new creation to wear tomorrow?’ Margarita leaned on one elbow, her head propped on her hand. ‘And I’ll have to wear that silly childish sailor dress that I wore today!’
‘Lenka and I will be wearing the same as we wore today as well.’
‘Yes, but you don’t care!’ Margarita threw herself back on her pillow, fair hair spread becomingly about her face, looking up at the ceiling. ‘Oh, I do so wish I could grow up! I sometimes think it’ll just never happen!’ She stretched, hands clasped above her. ‘One day I shall have so many pretty things that I’ll be able to wear a different outfit every day for a month! I bet Katya could do that now, the lucky thing! And I’ll bet she has loads of young men just queuing up to marry her. I wonder if she has a lover? I would if I were her. I’d have two. An old one and a young one.’ She was eyeing her older sister slyly, waiting for the shocked reaction.
Anna refused to rise to the bait. ‘Margarita, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Now do be quiet and go to sleep.’
‘Where’s Lenka?’
‘She’s helping Seraphima tidy up. Now, you want to look your best tomorrow, don’t you? Well, you’d better go to sleep then. Or you’ll have bags under your eyes.’
Grumbling still, Margarita tossed onto her side, burying her face in the bedclothes.
Anna continued brushing her hair, counting the strokes – one – two – three – four – anything to prevent herself from thinking –
In the parlour Lenka picked up the last of the glasses, dropped one, saved it before it rolled off the table. Her father, sitting comfortably in an armchair reading a news journal, stirred, peered over the top of the paper. ‘Ah. Yelena.’
‘Yes, Papa. I’m just helping Seraphima to clear away.’
‘Ah,’ he said again, then, ‘Yes.’
Lenka, his eyes upon her, promptly dropped the glass again. Her lank hair had fallen free of its pins and straggled about her face. She tried to tuck a strand behind her ear, and almost lost the other glass. He winced. Where in the world did this awkward, overblown cuckoo come from? Her gracelessness appalled him. The very look in her eyes – half-fearful, half-defiant, wholly troubled – was enough to try the patience of the most reasonable of men before she ever opened her mouth. What Pavel Petrovich saw in her he simply couldn’t understand.
The thought brought a nasty twinge of conscience; more than a twinge. Even a father could see the purely physical and sensual attraction of Yelena’s full breasts, her strong and supple waist, the curve of her wide hips, all so much at odds with that plain and unremarkable face. In rare moments of honesty he had to admit that he was not altogether easy in the bargain he had struck with Donovalov; but then – life being what it was, what could a man do? And in the world’s terms the man was a catch for such as Yelena; where else would she get such an offer? This was no fly-by-night boy but a grown man, of some substance and with a Government position. He’d be good for her; of course he would. The disquieting matter of reputation, and of some vague gossip about a dead wife, all that was pure nonsense. Hearsay. Any man made enemies as he fought his way to success. Lenka would have her own establishment, a husband with some little wealth and much ambition. There seemed small doubt that Donovalov would go far. The thought brought a wry twist to Victor’s mouth. Oh, yes – Pavel Petrovich would certainly go far. And, with any measure of luck, his father-in-law with him. He was surely entitled to some return on the outrageous sums the man had extorted from him? But – perhaps he should in fairness prepare Yelena? Her eighteenth birthday was at the end of July, and upon that day she was to become betrothed; the wedding, Donovalov was insisting, should be no more than a couple of months later. Sooner or later – for reasons as much practical as emotional – she must be told.
‘Lenka, my dear –’
‘Yes, Papa?’ The girl turned that closed, wary face to him.
‘Your eighteenth birthday – it’s this summer, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Papa.’ Lenka eyed him. His square face was unusually benign, his eyes held hers, smiling a little. Could it be? Had Anna kept her promise after all?
‘We have to talk about the future, don’t we? Such a big girl you’re becoming –’
The jocularity rang false. She hesitated, and then could hesitate no longer. ‘Anna’s spoken to you? She’s asked about the University courses?’
There was a long and uncomfortable silence. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Lenka was still clutching the glasses. She scowled down at them. ‘Anna – said she would speak to you – about the University –’
Victor shook his head testily, rattled his paper. ‘In the name of God, girl, what are you talking about now? No. That isn’t what I
meant at all. Of course not. I was going to –’ He stopped. The glasses clinked nervily in Lenka’s hands. His customary irritation reasserted itself. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, child, go to bed. I’ll talk to you another time. And send Seraphima in here; the stove needs making up.’
* * *
The bedroom was dark, and quiet. One lamp still burned, left for her. ‘Anna?’ Lenka hissed. ‘Anna!’
Anna’s breath was as even as a child’s, the bedclothes tucked to her chin, her wiry, reddish hair spread about the pillow.
‘Anna!’ There was a thread of miserable anger in Lenka’s voice. But even she could not bring herself to wake the sleeping Margarita with a lifted voice. Rita, once awake, was no easy customer to persuade back to sleep again.
Anna, with difficulty, kept her breathing level and quiet. Whatever grouse Lenka had now could most certainly wait until morning. She – Anna – couldn’t – she wouldn’t! – be soothing, rational and conciliatory. She felt none of those things. She felt, at this moment, utterly confused and wretched. And there was worse. So desperately at this moment did she herself need to talk to someone that she knew that just one word, one gesture of enquiry or affection from her sister would open floodgates that must at all cost be kept clamped shut. She gritted her teeth.
Lenka, preparing for bed, blundered about the darkened bedroom, muttering to herself, her movements angrily sharp. Anna tensed a little as her sister slid into the bed beside her, but Lenka did not attempt to wake her.
In the hall outside the bedroom the tall clock melodically struck eleven.
* * *
The apartment on the Fontanka was full of flowers, crowded with people and bursting at the seams with food and drink. There were bowls of hyacinths everywhere, filling the rooms with their sweet and heady perfume. With every moment it seemed to Anna that other guests arrived, calling and laughing as they swept through the great revolving doors and mounted the graceful sweep of the stairs to the front door of the Bourlovs’ home; the formal Easter greeting rang through the magnificent rooms with laughter and with kisses.
‘Oh, Anna, isn’t this just wonderful?’ Margarita looked about her with eager, fascinated eyes. The apartment was indeed a grand one. The small but charming ballroom in which the Easter tables had been laid had two tall windows with balconies that overlooked the road and the glittering waters of the canal. The room was already crowded and abuzz with conversation. Anna recognized hardly anyone. She smiled at her young sister who was standing on tiptoe gazing about her with avid curiosity and all but jumping up and down with excitement. ‘Whoever do you think that lady over there might be? She looks terribly grand! Are they real diamonds, do you think? She’s got an awful lot of them if they are. And – Anna, look! – isn’t that someone famous? I’m sure I recognize his face!’
‘Rita, for heaven’s sake, don’t stare at people so – it’s really very rude!’
‘And the handsome gentleman with the splendid moustache – I know him! It’s Scriabin, isn’t it? Papa took us to see him. Do you think he’ll play for us?’
Anna followed her sister’s gaze. ‘Yes, it is.’ Her heart sank like lead. Her father had agreed with what had seemed to Anna to be ironic enthusiasm to Uncle Mischa’s genial suggestion that she should play for his guests after lunch. Anna herself had agreed readily; not for a moment had she expected such a huge and august gathering; still less had she expected one of the city’s most respected musicians and composers to be in the audience.
‘Uncle Mischa must know just about everyone in St Petersburg.’ Margarita bestowed a winning smile upon a portly gentleman, who returned it with delighted interest. ‘I’m going to find Dima.’ Before her sister could restrain her she had disappeared smartly into the crowd.
Anna stepped back a little, into the shadow of a spreading palm, stood alone, watching the greetings, the flicker of fans, the colourful movement of the throng. Dresses were sumptuous, jewels gleamed, brilliant uniforms studded the room. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. The noise, echoing to the high, ornate ceiling, was almost deafening. In her green woollen dress, demurely cut and, she was aware, just a little short, she felt dowdy and out of place.
‘Tea, Mamselle? Or liqueur?’ An immaculately-dressed young manservant hovered at her side, a silver tray in white-gloved hands.
‘Oh, yes – tea please.’ She took a glass of tea, stood clutching it as the man moved away leaving her alone again.
‘Anna! Darling, what on earth are you doing drinking that beastly stuff?’ Cheerfully and unceremoniously her cousin Katya, appearing at her side like an extremely pretty and animated Jack-in-the-box, took the glass from her hand and deposited its contents into the palm. ‘Come and get some food – there’s champagne over there. Never drink tea when there’s champagne on offer – it’s terribly bad for you, you know!’ Laughing, her cousin caught her hand and towed her through the crowds, gaily returning the greetings of her parents’ guests on the way. Katya was wearing the coral silk that rustled and swirled about her as she moved. Margarita’s eyes had almost fallen out of her head when she had seen it. Anna felt like the dying tail of a glittering comet as she allowed herself to be drawn in her cousin’s wake. She acknowledged introductions with nods and smiles, Katya giving her no time for any more elaborate courtesy.
‘Here we are. Food. Thank goodness. I’m starving.’
They had arrived at the far side of the room where stood three long tables spread with the most astounding array of food that Anna had ever seen. Dishes of caviar, grey, black and orange, smoked and marinated fish, pâtés, hams and chickens. There were pickled mushrooms and cucumbers, whole cold salmon, baby sturgeon in aspic. An entire table was devoted to a variety of cakes, pastries and sweetmeats. Iced bottles of champagne and of the inevitable vodka were set in clusters at intervals along the tables.
‘Champagne.’ Katya handed her a tall glass filled to the brim with the sparkling liquid. ‘The very best.’
‘Katya, I’m playing later on! I’m already terrified enough!’
‘All the more reason. Nothing like a glass of this to soothe the nerves and boost the confidence!’ Katya stood back, eyeing her a little critically. ‘Have you brought another dress?’
Knowing her cousin as she did, and in the light of the quite surprising affection that had grown between them in the past months, Anna could not take offence at her outspokenness. She laughed. ‘Katya – of course not! I haven’t got another dress!’
‘What a pity. A pity too that you’re so much taller than I – you could have borrowed something.’ Katya sipped her champagne pensively. ‘I know! I’ve got a very pretty scarf, and some earrings – you ought to wear something more dramatic, you know.’ She scooped the champagne bottle from the table, took Anna’s glass from her. ‘Tell you what, I’ll take charge of this, you get a couple of plates of food – plenty of black caviar, please, and some of that smoked salmon – and we’ll nip along to my room and see what we can find. It’ll be more comfortable anyway – I hate eating standing up. Oh, Mother of Angels, look out! Here come the two mamas. Hurry up, Anna, or they’ll nail us to the floor in the cause of good manners!’
Anna scrambled some food onto the plates and the two girls fled through the crowd, laughing. Katya’s mother, watching her daughter’s disappearing back, shook her head, smiling. ‘What is the girl up to now? Not more mischief, I hope.’
‘Anna’s with her,’ Varya said, as if that simple fact made any such notion highly unlikely.
Which, Zhenia thought, with a twinge of sympathy for her young niece, it very probably did. One did not somehow associate Anna with mischief. A pity really. The child did not seem to get much fun out of life. ‘Well, little sister – we haven’t seen much of each other over these past weeks. Are you enjoying St Petersburg?’
Varya set down her empty glass, tried unsuccessfully to keep her eyes from widening at the sight of the laden tables. ‘Well enough, thank you. The apartment is a little small of course – but then it
’s only a temporary arrangement, Andrei found the place for us and he really has very little idea of the needs of a family. Just as soon as Victor is settled on the Nevsky we’ll start to look for something a little better.’ Her eyes flickered to the luxury that surrounded her. She lifted her small, pretty chin. ‘Nothing too ostentatious, of course.’
Zhenia smothered a smile. Her younger sister’s envy of her own better fortunes, expressed often in small, sanctimonious pinpricks of apparent disapproval, amused rather than dismayed her. Varya’s greeting to her that day: ‘My dear – what a very pretty dress! It must have cost a fortune! I’ve noticed that shade of blue is very popular this season, isn’t it? Absolutely everyone is wearing it!’ had already been relayed to a grinning Mischa, who found his sister-in-law, in small doses, highly entertaining.
‘Zhenia Petrovna – and your charming sister! Two lovely little birds on a single branch, so to speak! What luck! Come, ladies, allow me to serve you. The caviar I must tell you is absolutely delicious.’ A large man, flamboyantly uniformed, bowed extravagantly before them, took Varya’s extended hand to his lips.
‘General Stonberg,’ Zhenia acknowledged, with a small smile.
Varya, tiny beside him, sent him her most alluring look.
Zhenia, gracefully, disentangled her hand from the General’s hard grip. ‘I really should see to my other guests. General – I may leave my sister in your capable hands? Varya, as the General says, do try the caviar – it really is very good. And General – may I suggest a small glass of that excellent cherry brandy for my Varya Petrovna?’ With some relief she left them together. Give Varya a solid gold, prettily-uniformed General to charm and she’d be well occupied for the rest of the afternoon. And so would he.
Strange Are the Ways Page 11