Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  ‘Oh, Anna, you lucky thing! What a pretty dress!’ Rita’s eyes were like saucers.

  Dmitri grinned in grudging admiration. ‘Not bad,’ he conceded. ‘Not bad at all.’

  Margarita was at the window. ‘Oh, look! Look! Guy’s here! In a car! A hired car! With a chauffeur!’

  There was a stampede to the window. Anna stood, excited as a child, breathing evenly, apparently calm.

  Margarita flew to the door, opened it. They heard her voice, her laughter, Guy’s reply. He appeared at the door, tall and distinguished in impeccably-cut evening suit, bright blue eyes twinkling. He smiled to see her, a ready, admiring smile that warmed her heart. ‘Anna, my dear, you look lovely.’

  Minutes later they were on their way, Guy’s hand firmly beneath her elbow as she picked her way carefully down the stairs.

  The door to Andrei’s workshop remained firmly shut.

  Anna suppressed her feeling of disappointment. She had so much wanted Andrei to see her in her new, grown-up finery. Until this last moment she had expected to see him appear.

  ‘A pity,’ Guy said, as he reached for the outer door and held it open for her, ‘that Andrei could not postpone his visit to Moscow. I told him – I’m certain the Embassy could have obtained an extra ticket for him.’

  Anna opened her mouth. Shut it again. Andrei was not in Moscow, she was certain of it. He had been with them for dinner the night before, and had mentioned nothing of such a trip. Allowing herself to be handed into the splendid, leather-upholstered interior of the car, aware of the faces pressed to the window above, settling herself comfortably beside her smiling, avuncular escort she quite carefully allowed the words to sink into her mind. Andrei could have been with them. He had chosen otherwise. He had lied to allow himself that choice. The blow was painful, she could not deny it.

  The car purred softly away down the empty street.

  * * *

  Andrei’s deception was the only shadow to darken an otherwise wonderful occasion, and even that disappointment could not spoil Anna’s enjoyment of it. She lost count of the number of ‘firsts’ that the evening produced. Never before had she ridden in a chauffeur-driven car. Never had she sat in the isolated splendour of a velvet-curtained box with a view of the stage uncluttered by the silhouetted heads and shoulders of other members of the audience. Never had a gentleman bought her a corsage, a whole box of chocolates, champagne for the interval.

  Never had she been so cosseted and cared for; indeed, when the family visited the theatre it was invariably she who spent the best part of her time organizing the comforts of others.

  Guy for his part watched her with a quiet amusement and delight, more than happy to be the source of her fresh and artless pleasure in what had come to him to be quite unremarkable things. The invitation had been upon impulse. He liked Anna very much; he enjoyed the company of young people, especially of intelligent young people, and Anna reminded him in some indefinable way of her uncle in those first years of their friendship so many years before. He found, too, her total lack of artifice and sophistication refreshing. She possessed an odd mixture of ingenuousness and self-sufficient maturity that amused and touched him; an attractive mixture that he had already identified and appreciated in her music. In a long lifetime of extremely eligible bachelorhood he had learned a considerable amount about the more designing side of feminine nature. There was an openness, a sense of honesty about Anna that beguiled him. When all about them lace handkerchiefs fluttered prettily upon poor Mimi’s theatrical demise, tears poured unashamedly down Anna’s cheeks and, sniffing, she accepted the man-sized handkerchief he offered, mopped her eyes and blew her nose like a child.

  They took supper at the well-known Restaurant L‘Ours, Guy’s original plan to take her out to the more fashionable Villa Rhode on the Islands having to be changed because of Victor’s insistence on Anna’s being home by eleven. Anna cared not a jot about the change of plan. L‘Ours seemed to her to be the very height of comfort and luxury. She ate oysters – another ‘first’ – and caviare and drank altogether too much champagne. Her one and only moment of real discomfort came when she realized that she needed the Ladies’ Room, and that, having in an agony of embarrassment ascertained through Guy its situation, the trip there and back involved walking alone across what looked like acres of deep red carpet and up a sweeping staircase beneath glittering chandeliers, reflected in myriad mirrors and under the admittedly disinterested but nonetheless intimidating gaze of what seemed like half of St Petersburg. Until now everything she had done, she had done with her arm tucked well and truly into Guy’s. With remarkable rapidity her head cleared, and she quailed.

  Guy smiled, gently. He covered her hand with his, dry, warm and strong, sensing her sudden terror with sure instinct. ‘My dear. Look at me.’

  She lifted her clear, nervous eyes to his.

  ‘Listen to me. There is absolutely no reason to worry. You lift your head, so –’ he tilted her chin with his finger ‘– and you walk, back straight, head up. When you come back, you find me – you watch me – and you won’t be afraid. Go.’

  She went. And it worked. With possibly champagne-induced assurance she wove between the tables, mounted the stairs, found herself in the most luxurious room she had ever seen, all velvet reds and golds and gilded mirrors, elegantly lit and deeply carpeted. As with everything else she had seen and done this evening, she did her best to memorize the look of the place; Margarita she knew would be far more interested in the Powder Room of the Restaurant L‘Ours than in the merits or otherwise of the Italian Opera. When she rejoined Guy at the table he was paying the bill. Regretfully she followed him out of the restaurant to where the car awaited them, the door held open by a respectful doorman. Her ingenuous smile and bright ‘thank you’ brought a genuine return; the man’s face lit, and the automatic touch to his cap was jaunty. ‘Madam. Excellency.’ As the car glided through the summer twilight of the streets of the city she turned to Guy. ‘Oh, thank you! Thank you so much! I have so enjoyed the evening.’

  He patted her hand, pleased. ‘And so have I, my dear. So have I.’ It was, he reflected, more than a simple good-mannered pleasantry. He had enjoyed the evening immensely. Guy de Fontenay counted himself, with very good reason, a lucky man. His life had been long and varied, his bachelorhood was a matter of choice occasioned in the first instance not by a dislike of women but by a genuine love of them. In his younger days it had seemed to him that only a fool would tie himself to one delight when so many others were on offer; and he had never seen the attraction of a marriage based upon infidelity as it seemed were the unions of so many of his friends and contemporaries. The simple answer, therefore, was not to marry. And as he got older he had seen no reason to change his mind. The family business in London was a well-founded and prosperous one; the small but exceptionally attractive estate that the de Fontenays owned in Sussex had become over the years the centre of an urbane and intelligent group of artists, writers and most especially musicians, all of them renowned in their field, all of them true friends of Guy de Fontenay. His life was full and happy, he pleased himself and followed his own wide-ranging and civilized interests and inclinations; on balance he had seen no reason to disrupt things by acquiring a wife. In his time he had squired some of the richest and most beautiful women in Europe, yet the simple pleasure of watching Anna’s open, unforced enjoyment of the evening had been a real and surprising delight to him. He smiled to himself as he watched her sharp, decisive profile. Perhaps he had indeed become a little blasé over these past few years. Anna had been good for him, her youth and freshness like a breeze through the opened window of a warm and perfumed room. The small conceit pleased him. ‘I’m greatly looking forward to your picnic.’

  She turned. ‘Oh, so am I! Sonya’s been baking for days – and Papa says we may have real champagne! I do so love these summer’s nights – I always think I’m so lucky to have been born in June, when the white nights are here.’

  He smiled at
her enthusiasm. ‘Lucky indeed. Ah, here we are.’

  The car purred to a halt at the kerb. Anna turned to face him and, shyly impulsive, leaned to kiss his cheek. ‘Thank you, Guy. It’s been the most wonderful evening.’

  ‘It’s for me to thank you,’ he said, gently. ‘It’s been a very long time since I enjoyed anything so much. Now, we must return you to your papa before you turn into a pumpkin.’ He smiled again, enjoying her laughter. ‘That would be a poor end to such an evening, would it not?’

  * * *

  The day before Anna’s birthday it rained. Sewing in the parlour with her mother, Anna watched from the window, anxiously. It would be too bad if after these past lovely days the weather broke now. In the afternoon, however, the clouds cleared and the evening was a fine one. ‘It’ll be a good day tomorrow, Anna Victorovna,’ Seraphima, who was looking forward to the trip as much as any of the family, assured her with peasant certainty, ‘you’ll see. A good day.’

  The birthday did indeed dawn a little cloudy but with the air of summer about it. The atmosphere was warm, a little heavy. On the breakfast table lay a small pile of gaily-wrapped presents. To Margarita’s incredulity – she could no more have left a present unopened than she could have skated on water – Anna waited until after their breakfast of hot chocolate and buns before opening them. Victor had breakfasted earlier and left for the shop. His and Varya’s present to their eldest daughter was a small trinket box that tinkled a pretty tune when opened. Margarita and Dmitri had clubbed together to buy her a pair of silver earrings. There was a slender gold bracelet from Katya and her parents, entrusted to Varya before the Bourlovs had left for Finland. And from Lenka there was a book of Chekhov short stories. Warmly Anna kissed her, genuinely pleased with the thoughtful present. ‘Thank you, Lenka. Thank you.’

  Lenka shrugged a little, but at least she smiled.

  From Seraphima and Nanny Irisha came a length of green ribbon to tie up her hair, and Sonya had cooked a special cake. Anna clapped her hands delightedly. ‘We’ll take it with us tonight!’

  But for Anna the best present of all was the one that Andrei gave her, when he arrived that evening to help with the preparations for the picnic.

  She knew what it was, as did everyone else, from the long and slender shape of the parcel. ‘I promised to make you a bow,’ he said, with a small, deprecating movement of his hand. ‘But I thought – perhaps this one would suit you better than any – ?’

  She opened the long case. There was a small silence. With every eye upon her she assured herself of complete control before lifting a shining, smiling face. ‘It’s – beautiful. Thank you.’ She took the bow out of its case, weighed it, marvelling, in her fingers. Silver and ebony and mother of pearl gleamed softly. The wood was oiled and polished smooth as silk. Once handled it could not be mistaken; this was, she knew beyond doubt, the bow she had seen on that first visit to Andrei’s rooms; the bow he had left unfinished after the death of his beloved Galina. A magnificent thing it would have been, made by any master; but this was the last Andrei had made with his two good hands; the final illustration of a genius maimed. He had haired it now, and, complete at last, it was his birthday gift to her. A gift beyond price. Unable to speak she stepped lightly to him and dropped a swift kiss upon his cheek. She felt his body tense very slightly as she touched him. Quickly she stepped back. ‘Thank you,’ she said, quietly, ‘it’s lovely.’

  ‘Play us something, Anna!’ Margarita said. ‘The gypsy song! Play us the gypsy song!’

  Anna fetched her violin, raised the bow, gracefully and steadily poised. It was the most exquisite thing she had ever held; strong, balanced, the perfect weight. She tested it, lightly and with care, her face absorbed. Magically, it was as if the thing were a living extension of herself, a bridge between nerve, mind and heart and the instrument she held. Tentatively she played the first phrase or two, stopped, stood absolutely still for a quiet moment, her eyes half-closed, then she launched into the gypsy tune that Andrei had taught her. The music was joyous. Victor beamed. Margarita clapped and stamped her feet, her body moving with instinctive grace in time with the compulsive rhythm. Even Lenka’s head lifted, her eyes brightening almost to a smile.

  Andrei watched her, his face masked.

  Only Seraphima heard the doorbell. It was a moment before Guy appeared in the doorway. He stood quietly, watching and listening. Anna saw him. The music stopped in mid-flight. ‘Oh, please –’ he raised expressive hands ‘– don’t stop.’

  ‘But we must!’ Varya’s attention was immediately upon more practical things. ‘Come – it’s getting late!’

  ‘M’sieu de Fontenay!’ Margarita breathed from the window. ‘Two hired cars!’

  Guy beamed upon them all. ‘I thought we should be comfortable,’ he said.

  Comfortable they were. The hampers and the rugs loaded into the boots of the long, gleaming cars, they distributed themselves between the two vehicles, settling amidst laughter and exclamations into the luxuriously sprung leather seats – Seraphima sitting straight as a ramrod, an expression of pure terror on her face; she had heard that these dreadful contraptions could travel as fast as a galloping horse. The train she had found trying enough; this she had not bargained for. Fatalistically she crossed herself; strange were the ways of God.

  They were borne smoothly and swiftly through the streets of the city and out into the flat, wooded countryside. The sun dipped and swung low along the wide horizon. The ride here was not so smooth, nor was progress so fast. There were few other cars on the dusty roads, though they passed one or two carriages and several parties of young people on horseback. A family wobbled along upon bicycles, mother and daughter in voluminous bloomers that had Varya staring and Seraphima, shocked for a moment out of her fright, blushing furiously. Margarita spent a few interesting moments wondering if it might be worth the effort of learning to master one of those silly machines in order to be given the opportunity to wear such a scandalous garment. A moment’s thought, however, and a glance at her father’s face convinced her, reluctantly, that the likelihood of a Shalakov female bicycling in bloomers was slim indeed.

  Peasants leading donkeys, or carrying loads piled high upon their own shoulders, stopped to stare as they passed. Margarita was in her element. Sitting next to the window she preened and tossed her head, chattering and laughing vivaciously, apparently unaware of the attention she was attracting, in fact acutely conscious of every glance. The waters of the Gulf glittered through the trees, reflecting the fire of the sunset through stands of graceful birch and larch, and tall, dark pine. Small gabled wooden houses, many of them brightly painted, stood in the clearings of the forest, chickens pecking about the yards. Dogs sprang to life as they passed, barking furiously and chasing the wheels of these strange, noisy vehicles. They turned at last down a sandy track and came to a stretch of shingle that edged the vast, still waters of the Gulf. The trees here were predominantly birch; they stood almost to the water’s edge, their silver trunks straight as wands, their small glittering leaves shimmering in the faintest of breezes. The vast expanse of water, glimmering through the trees, gave back the tranquil colours of the evening sky.

  ‘It’s perfect! Perfect!’ Anna clasped her hands, looking about her. Seraphima, openly relieved to be out of the infernal and dangerous automobile, fussed with the hampers, Varya arranged herself decoratively upon a rug. The cars moved back to the road to await the time of return.

  ‘Come on, Dima. Firewood.’ Andrei caught the boy’s hand and, laughing and calling, they disappeared into the shadowed woods.

  ‘I’m going to paddle! Come on, Natalia.’ Margarita kicked her shoes off, turned her back as she wriggled out of her stockings. Then, skirt lifted daintily, she stepped into the gently lapping water. ‘Natalia, do hurry! It’s lovely!’

  Some little way along the curve of the beach another family party was already settled to a picnic. A young man played a balalaika, and a girl sang, a sweet and soulful sound that echoe
d across the still waters.

  Bottles of vodka were opened. The men sat in shirtsleeves – even Victor for once wooed to informality by the magic of the soft evening air – elbows on knees, glasses in hand. Dmitri sulked a little at first when Andrei watered the clear spirit before passing him his glass, but soon regained his good humour as he sipped the still-strong spirit. Varya, the girls and Seraphima sipped thimble-sized glasses of rowan-berry liqueur; Rita maliciously delighted when Natalia, unused to such sophistication, became openly giggly after embarking upon her second small glass. The picnic was spread; the inevitable and delicious ‘pirozhkis’, smoked sausage and chicken, the doughnut-like rolls called ‘kalachi’ that were one of Sonya’s specialities, cheesecakes, spiced biscuits and fruit. The picnic samovar had been set upon Andrei’s fire; woodsmoke drifted, fragrant, in the air. It was a moment of the most utter perfection.

  ‘A feast!’ Anna said, happily. ‘The Grand Duchesses themselves couldn’t possibly have a better! Lenka, do try these lovely mushrooms – they’re your favourites, I know.’

  Lenka accepted the plate Anna held out to her. Her mood was lighter than it had been for some time; on such an evening it was hard to harbour a grudge, though still her spirit was sore at what she saw as Anna’s betrayal, and still worry gnawed at her like a rat at a packing case. What had he meant? How had he dared to handle her, to talk to her so?

  They ate, drank tea, cleared the food, opened the bottles of champagne that Guy had insisted on providing. Andrei shook his head in refusal, laughing. ‘I’m going for a swim – coming, Dima? Victor? Guy?’

  The two older men shook their heads. ‘Are you trying to kill me off entirely?’ Guy enquired mildly, smoke from his cigar wreathing about him.

  Andrei and Dmitri moved off up the beach, for privacy, for as was the norm they would bathe naked. Victor lay back, arms behind his head, yawning. Varya had produced a pack of cards. ‘Come, girls – a game. Anna, you’d like to play?’