Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  ‘When does your English friend arrive, Uncle Andrei?’ Margarita had skipped up beside him and slipped her arm in his.

  ‘On Wednesday.’

  ‘Will he stay in one of the really grand hotels?’

  ‘Most certainly. He usually uses the Hotel de l‘Europe.’

  ‘Goodness! Will he invite us there, do you think?’

  ‘He might. If you smile at him very nicely.’

  ‘You must bring him to dinner, Andrei,’ Varya said. ‘On Thursday, perhaps. Or Friday. Do you think he would like to?’

  ‘I’m most certain he would, Varya Petrovna.’

  ‘Anna shall play for us,’ Victor said. ‘Does your English friend like music, Andrei?’

  Andrei smiled again at Anna. ‘Guy loves music – more than almost anything else, I think. I have already promised him that our Anna will play for him.’

  ‘Oh, heavens! That sounds terrifying!’ Anna did not look in the least bit terrified; in these past months her confidence had grown, and she was, for many reasons and in many ways, no longer a child.

  Andrei shook his head. ‘Guy isn’t terrifying. He’s the most amiable man you could wish to meet. You’ll like him, I’m sure.’

  ‘If he’s your friend,’ Anna said simply, ‘then I know I shall love him.’

  * * *

  The words in a way were prophetic; for if Anna did not exactly love Guy de Fontenay on sight she certainly liked him immensely from the moment he walked through the door. Tall, lean and distinguished-looking, he was indeed exactly as Andrei had described him: engaging, courteous, highly intelligent. But he was more. With sure feminine instinct Anna sensed that here was a kindly man, his warmth and charm no empty facade. And even had his personal qualities not won her, his obvious and open affection for Andrei would have been enough to ensure him an immediate place in her heart. Forewarned by Andrei, he came bearing gifts for everyone – flowers for Varya, cigars for Victor, a pretty brooch for Margarita, a handsome, lacquered bilboquet for Dmitri, whose pride at his expertise at this game, which entailed deftly catching a small ball in a cup on one end of the stick or impaling it on the spike at the other, was matched only by the irritation of most of the rest of the family at the clicking, clattering noise it made. For Lenka there was a book and for Anna a pale green silk scarf.

  The evening was a great success. Sonya the cook outdid herself in honour of the foreign guest; the inevitable but tasty soup was followed by a selection of cold meats and fish and then by Sonya’s speciality, the delicious meat and vegetable pies known as ‘pirozhki’. Although normally dessert in the Shalakov household was eaten only on a Sunday, thinly sliced oranges sprinkled with sugar followed. The conversation was entertaining, Guy proving more than happy to satisfy his hosts’ curiosity about England and the English. His Russian was excellent, if strangely accented; he had had, as he pointed out with a smile, a very good and enthusiastic teacher. A bottle of vodka had been emptied and a new one started before the meal ended around the table upon which the steaming samovar was set. Even Lenka had been charmed from her usual reserve to question and even to laugh at the dry humour in which most of the answers were couched. Anna was then prevailed upon to play, and a little nervously she took the lovely old violin from its case and settled it upon her shoulder. Guy steepled long, bony fingers, leaned forward, watching her intently. His eyes, set in a lean, deeply-lined but not unhandsome face were the brightest blue Anna had ever seen. She played Mozart and Vivaldi; finished with Andrei’s wild gypsy tune. Their guest’s reaction was gratifying.

  ‘Wonderful, Anna Victorovna, wonderful! Andrei, you didn’t do your niece justice! Such sensitivity, such great maturity in one – if I may say so without offence? – so young!’

  The small party broke up with warm thanks and an invitation for the whole family to join him for dinner the following Monday at the Hotel de l‘Europe, an invitation that set Margarita’s pretty eyes glowing.

  Some little while later Anna, having supervised the clearing of the table and the work in the kitchen, came into the parlour to find her father alone enjoying a last small glass of vodka and one of Guy’s cigars. He was reading the newspaper, his pince-nez perched upon the tip of his nose. ‘I came to say good night, Papa.’

  He nodded a little absently. ‘Yes indeed. Good night, my dear.’

  ‘It was a lovely evening, wasn’t it? I liked Mr de Fontenay very much.’

  ‘Charming man. Charming.’

  Anna plumped up a cushion, moved a chair back into its accustomed place. ‘It will be nice to go to the hotel for dinner, won’t it?’

  ‘Most certainly it will.’

  ‘I was wondering – perhaps Mr de Fontenay would like to come with us on my birthday? The picnic? Since the Bourlovs can’t be there it would be fun to have someone different, don’t you think?’ The midnight picnic to be held in honour of Anna’s nineteenth birthday had been the subject of much discussion and much excitement over the past days, for all it was a full fortnight away.

  ‘By all means invite him, if he’s still going to be in St Petersburg.’ Her father closed the paper, folded it very neatly.

  ‘Oh yes, he will be. He’s here for a month, Andrei –’ she stumbled a little ‘– Uncle Andrei said so.’

  ‘Good.’ Her father carefully pinched out the cigar. Anna hesitated. Over the past few days, Lenka’s irritating sulks notwithstanding, her conscience had not been entirely clear. If she were going to try to persuade her father to allow her and her sister to enrol on a course at the University as Lenka so desperately wanted the subject would have to be broached at some time between now and the autumn. Several times she had been on the point of speaking to him, but each time somehow the occasion had not seemed exactly right. She remembered all too clearly the dreadful quarrel after his refusal to allow her to take up the scholarship; whilst outwardly their relationship had returned to normal she knew all too well – probably better than her father did – its true fragility. But still, sooner or later, the attempt would have to be made; perhaps this evening, convivial as it had been, was as good a time as any. ‘Papa?’

  Victor was fussily folding his glasses, putting them into their small leather case, placing them precisely upon the folded newspaper. ‘Yes, my dear?’

  Varya’s voice sounded in the hall outside, talking to one of the others. Victor turned his head, listening. Varya had behaved quite well this evening, he was willing to admit. She had graced his table prettily and played her role of hostess admirably. Possibly the stern talking-to he had given her after the Bourlovs’ party had paid dividends after all. Possibly too the headache of which she had been complaining ever since might have been cleared by such a pleasant evening. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Anna hesitated. ‘I was just saying –’ Perfectly obviously her father’s thoughts were elsewhere. Perhaps now was not the time after all. ‘Nothing, Papa. I was just saying good night.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Good night, my dear.’ He kissed her cheek perfunctorily, inclined his head absently in the direction of the icon above its steadily burning lamp in the corner and left the room.

  After plumping up the cushions of her father’s chair and turning down the lamps, Anna followed. There really had been no point in trying to talk to him this evening. There’d be another chance soon. Perhaps on her birthday. He’d surely be readier to accede to such a request on such a day than at any other time? Lenka would just have to wait a little longer. It served her right for being so grumpy.

  She stood in the darkened hall for a moment, alone. She heard her parents’ voices from behind their bedroom door, heard the click and rattle of the new bilboquet from her brother’s room. Margarita’s trill of laughter rang out, dishes clattered in the kitchen. Downstairs, just one floor below her, her uncle would be alone in his neat and quiet room. What was he doing? Reading perhaps? Asleep already? She pictured his face, calm and relaxed in sleep and fought a sudden, wanton impulse to slip out of the front door, down the stairs and –
r />   She pulled herself up, shaking her head. Devoted friends. That was what they were. She must never forget that. Devoted friends. The line was set between them and as long as neither overstepped it both were safe. She found herself thinking suddenly of Guy de Fontenay, of the obvious affection he and Andrei felt for one another. It was good that Andrei should have such a friend. Anna remembered Guy’s intent enjoyment of her playing, recalled his warm praise, and smiled. Even on such short acquaintance she felt strangely certain that if she needed it he would stand friend to her too.

  She stood for a moment outside the bedroom door, her fingers upon the handle. From within she heard Rita’s laughing voice and Lenka’s low reply. For one second longer she stood, savouring this small, solitary moment in a life in which such times were few. The evening had been lovely. She had played well. Andrei, she knew from the look in his eyes, had been proud of her. She was after all glad that she had not spoken to her father about the University; with a sudden uncharacteristic lift of light-heartedness it came to her that, despite all, for tonight she was as happy as she had ever been. It would have been foolish to spoil it. She would speak to him on her birthday. There was plenty of time.

  Chapter Seven

  In the two weeks that led up to her birthday only the continuing ill-feeling between herself and Lenka clouded Anna’s happiness; yet even that could not truly blight those days of delight. That her high spirits might be ill-founded she refused even to consider – the sun shone, her precious ‘loving friendship’ thrived and grew and made each day a new adventure. The world, for that short, light-hearted time was hers, and resolutely she would see nothing in it but the good. The weather held, and as one long, warm day followed another the gilded city showed herself to her very best advantage. There was an air of holiday as people promenaded through the bright evenings along the banks of the rivers and canals or in the wide avenues and tree-filled squares. The Shalakovs dined with Guy de Fontenay at his hotel – an experience which set Margarita dreaming preoccupied and glamorous dreams – and he in his turn accepted with pleasure Anna’s invitation to her birthday picnic, insisting over Victor’s polite objections that as his contribution to the evening he would provide the transport to take them the few miles to the shores of the Gulf, arguing with self-mocking solemnity that if they took an elderly gentleman like himself on such a trip they could not expect his old bones to survive the buffeting of public transport. Laughingly Anna pointed out that those same elderly bones had managed quite happily to transport themselves halfway across Europe by train; unruffled, he seriously assured her that such a feat had only been made possible by large quantities of vintage champagne and a kindly conductor. Anna took leave to doubt that; Guy de Fontenay was by no means a young man, but his vitality and energy belied his years. An almost immediate warmth had grown between these two, their shared passion for music linking them, their obvious enjoyment of each other’s company encouraged by Andrei, their mutual regard for whom created yet another bond.

  Guy was not the only outsider to be asked to the picnic. To everyone’s mild astonishment and mostly hidden amusement Dmitri had announced with some bravado that he had invited Natalia to accompany them.

  Margarita was derisive. ‘Oh, Dima, what on earth for? She’s such a dull little thing!’

  Dmitri’s face reddened. ‘Just because she doesn’t shriek and shout the way you do doesn’t make her dull.’

  ‘I thought you liked Natalia?’ Anna asked her sister.

  The girl shrugged dismissively. ‘She’s all right.’ In fact Margarita’s pretty nose had been put considerably out of joint by her brother’s friendship with the quiet girl who had originally been her own devoted acolyte. What was Natalia doing attracting masculine attention – even such insignificant attention as Margarita considered her brother’s to be – when she, Margarita, had as yet no beau? Though she would have died under torture before admitting it, Margarita was jealous. Whenever Natalia was in the house Dima always contrived to be nearby. Many a time Margarita found herself the odd one out in their quiet conversations and soft laughter. Not that Natalia’s attitude to Margarita had changed; on the contrary, she was as devoted as ever. But there could be no doubting the sincerity of the shy smile that lit her face when Dmitri entered the room, nor the fact that she looked for him the moment she entered the apartment. Margarita was not used to sharing attention with others and she was not particularly enjoying the experience. Her chagrin was complete when Dmitri, never known for his interest in or application to his school work, adapted a scientific experiment involving wire, water, salts and much patience to produce a small, sparkling crown that glittered like diamonds, which he proudly presented to Natalia. It really was an exquisite thing, and Margarita coveted it, though crossly she denied even liking it. ‘If it were real diamonds, well, that would be worth something.’ As for Natalia’s invitation to the picnic, Margarita, had she thought of it, would happily have invited the girl herself. It was not poor Natalia’s presence to which she objected, it was the fact that Dmitri had been the instrument of it. No girl’s brother had invited Margarita to his sister’s midnight birthday picnic this summer, and the thought that dull and mousy Natalia had succeeded where bright and lively Margarita had apparently failed rankled; and her treatment of her long- suffering and patient friend had deteriorated accordingly.

  A few days before the picnic Guy announced what he called his own small birthday treat for Anna. He had obtained two tickets for the Italian Opera, who were performing ‘La Bohème’, at the Mariinski and he would be more than honoured if Anna Victorovna would accompany him. He addressed his request formally through Victor, of course, who had no qualms about allowing her to accept. Had Guy been a younger man then a chaperone would have been necessary. But Guy was several years older than Victor himself, and in these past days had firmly established himself as a family friend, so there could be no question of impropriety in such a thoughtful gesture. When he stretched the invitation to include dinner afterwards however Victor hesitated.

  ‘Oh, Papa, please!’ Anna had never been offered such an outing. As a family they went of course to concerts and operas, as did almost every other family they knew, but their seats were never in the fashionable part of the house and such extravagance as supper afterwards was unthinkable. ‘It is my birthday after all; and if Guy has offered it would be terribly rude to refuse, don’t you think?’ She held her breath.

  Victor relented. ‘Very well. But I must make it clear that you should be home no later than eleven.’

  ‘Of course, Papa. Thank you.’

  Even though Anna did not nurse the kind of social aspirations that were almost an obsession with her younger sister, the thought of such an evening could not but excite her. St Petersburg was famous for its glittering social life – the theatres, the restaurants were counted amongst the best in the world. There was just one problem; what in heaven’s name should she – could she – wear?

  It was the one and only time that Varya took motherly charge of her eldest daughter’s affairs to any effect. This, after all, was a real crisis. Poor, plain Anna – which was the way Varya privately thought of her daughter – must not be allowed to attend such a glittering occasion in drab and well-worn cotton. A dress must be found.

  And indeed, a dress was found. A short and decisive interview in which Varya made it clear to Victor that this was a matter that might, if not resolved, be the cause of the severest of headaches, was followed by a visit to Zhenia’s dressmaker. Through a combination of coaxing and bullying which left Anna herself open-mouthed a dress of pale watered silk in which only the slightest flaws were detectable was hastily put together to fit her tall thin frame. During the one fitting in the hurried timetable she had to admit that she much enjoyed being described as ‘slender’. Within twenty-four hours the dress was ready.

  Varya stood back and surveyed her with a critical eye. ‘Do stand up straight, Annoushka! Shoulders back – so –’

  ‘But Mama –’ Anna
fluttered a nervous hand about her all but bare shoulders ‘– it feels so odd!’ She glanced again into the mirror, hardly believing what she saw. The dress, perforce, was simple, too simple she knew for her mother’s taste, the almost severe lines emphasizing her height, the pale, oyster silk bringing out in hair that at its worst could look like a mass of copper wire a soft marigold sheen.

  ‘Wait.’ If there was a skill that Varya possessed it was the art of adornment, of producing an effect, and her memory had served her well. She delved into a drawer, brought out the green and blue filmy scarf that Katya had given Anna. ‘There. That’s better. Poor Annoushka, you are so very –’ she hesitated ‘– angular. Softness is the thing – such a pity that there wasn’t more material – the skirt is a little skimpy –’

  The family assembled to inspect her as she waited for Guy to collect her. Only Lenka, eyeing her, still sullen, said nothing.

  ‘My little Annoushka! How lovely you look!’ Victor was uncharacteristically emotional. ‘A grown-up lady!’