Russian Winter

by Daphne Kalotay

  Nina wondered why this surprised her, that Cynthia should have a family of her own. Had she not mentioned this before, or had Nina forgotten?

  “Charles and Raymond went to school in Florida and stayed on, but Penny’s still here. It was just them and me that came to Boston.” She paused a moment. Perhaps it was loneliness, the sudden awareness of having left everyone else behind, that silenced her. “Next month makes twelve years.”

  Nina heard herself asking, before she could stop herself, “And that is why you left? To leave your husband?”

  “No, we’d already divorced. I just needed to get off the island, you know?”

  Get off the island. Nina repeated this in her mind, and found herself nodding stiffly. The knot in her neck was not so bad today.

  “Who doesn’t want a better life?” Cynthia said. “Isn’t that why you came here?”

  So many questions—what was she doing, chatting back and forth like this? Slowly Nina said, “I really do not like to speak about it.” Even as she said it, though, she could not help but be horrified, at the thought that perhaps she already had.

  “HOW’S THE SUPPLEMENTAL coming along?” Lenore seemed to possess a second sense for those times when Drew found herself in a brief moment of quandary.

  “Slowly but surely,” Drew chose to say, since it was basically true. Things had been going well. Catalog Production had staged the jewels for the photographers—attractive displays they spent hours arranging—and so far everything was on schedule. Soon another press release would go out from Public Relations, describing some of the more exceptional items. “I’ve just heard back from the entomologist who looked at the amber, and it turns out the pendant might be worth even more than we thought.” She threw the “we” in just to be generous.

  “Great!” Lenore said, not seeming to see the problem. Though Grigori Solodin hadn’t given any conditions concerning his donation, Drew suspected he didn’t know the pendant’s full value. She waited until Lenore had left—after a few more breezy words about the brochure—to call him.

  He seemed surprised to hear from her. Somewhat anxiously, she repeated what, according to the entomologist, a specialist had finally confirmed. “It’s of a genus that’s itself quite rare.” She glanced at the words she’d taken down. “Genus Archaea, from the Archaeidae family. Apparently it was once common, but now it’s usually only found in Dominican amber, not Baltic. Plus this one’s perfectly centered, and with exceptional clarity.”

  Yet even when she gave him a revised estimate Grigori Solodin simply said, “Well, good, let’s hope there’s a bidding war. Science supporting the arts.”

  Drew laughed, though she found his easy generosity surprising. And then his tone changed. He wondered, he asked almost tentatively, if she happened to have found any of those logbooks. From the jeweler who had produced the amber suite.

  Drew wished she had something more to report. “I’ve done a search on Anton Samoilov, the maker, but I haven’t found any leads in terms of specific records from that house.” Feeling she had somehow let him down, she added, “That said, I’m only able to read the English-language publications and Web pages. I imagine there might be other information available in Russian.”

  “I can do a search in Russian, if you’d like.”

  Perhaps he thought she wasn’t working quickly enough. “I don’t mean to make you do my work for me—”

  “It’s really no problem, Miss Brooks.”

  “You can call me Drew.”

  “Of course, excuse me. Drew—is it archives I’d be looking for?”

  “Well, yes, although I don’t expect the actual archive to be online—if there even is one for this particular maker. But if there is one, there might be a lead as to where to find it. The house of Samoilov is no longer in existence, so there’s no one for us to contact directly.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad.”

  “Not necessarily. A company that’s still in business probably wouldn’t make its archives public.”

  “Really?” Grigori Solodin sounded relieved. “So, then, we’re basically looking for contact information. Who might have any records of sales from the house of Samoilov.”

  “Exactly. The jeweler, or rather the jeweler’s family, might have records in their possession, or they may have donated them somewhere. A university, a museum, a historical society.”

  “In Russia?”

  “Anywhere, really, depending on where the descendants ended up. In the meantime, I’m trying to see what we might be able to find in this country. I already called Special Collections at the Public Library. They put me in touch with the Center for Russian and Eurasian Studies, out in Chicago, but that turned out to be a dead end. I’ve put in calls to various museums of jewelry and of Russian jewels—but that stuff is pretty much all about imperial jewels and the Hermitage, Fabergé, all that. Nothing owned by people outside of the royal family.”

  “If I did happen to find anything online,” Grigori Solodin said, “a ledger or some sort of archive, what would the exact words be for the jewelry I’m looking for?”

  “Oh, all kinds of phrases, ‘amber drop earrings,’ ‘Baltic amber pendant,’ ‘cabochon with inclusion’…” Her pen was already moving as she spoke: surmounted…gold fittings…bezel-set…oval frame…14-karat yellow gold…56 zolotnik. “I’ll have to write them out for you. I can e-mail you a list. Again, I don’t mean to make you do my work. If and when you do find anything, I can of course hire a translator.”

  Grigori Solodin said, “You know, Drew, I am a translator.”

  “You are?” Her mind rushed, wondering if this was something she ought to have known.

  “Well, not the kind you have in mind, I suppose. I’m a literary translator. Of Russian poetry.”

  “Oh! I love poetry.”

  “Do you?” Sounding truly curious, he asked, “Which poets do you like?”

  “Well, I’m no English major, but I like to read poems. I took a class in college and still have all the books. I like Sylvia Plath and Howard Nemerov. And Edna St. Vincent Millay. And George Herbert and ee cummings. Oh, and I love Shakespeare. I suppose Pablo Neruda is the one poet whose work I have in translation.” Jorge, a man she dated briefly the year she first moved to Boston, had given her that one.

  “An excellent array.”

  “Nothing terribly original, I’m afraid.”

  “What does that matter? All that matters is that it moves you.”

  “I’ll have to remind myself that whenever I start thinking my taste ought to be more sophisticated.”

  “Who started you worrying about that? The very fact that you read, Drew—I mean that of your own volition you open a book. Of poetry, no less!”

  She laughed. “My ex-husband used to write poetry. Back when we were in college. But he had great disdain for pretty much anything they would teach in a classroom.” Recalling the faith she had had in him, she felt briefly sad at how quickly, how easily, he had left his literary dreams behind when he settled in at his first job, for the communications department of a hospital. “He had all kinds of theories about verse versus prose. I remember how horrified he was when I confessed that—Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “If I tell you this, then I’m confessing to you, too.”

  “Please, confess.” He sounded like he was smiling. In her mind Drew saw the three lines in the side of his cheek.

  “All right. Actually, I wonder, as a translator, what you’ll think. It’s that even though I love all kinds of poetry, even now, what I find I like the most…Oh, this is embarrassing.”

  “You’re keeping me on pins and needles here.”

  “Well, what I tend to prefer are poems that…rhyme.”

  Grigori Solodin gave a brief delighted yelp.

  “Not a Hallmark card type of rhyming, nothing like that. Not hard exact rhymes at the end of every line. But a more obvious matching of sound, you know?”

  “Yes, I do. I know exactly.”

  “
It’s just something I figured out about myself, that I’m not always very good with free verse. I don’t always know quite what to do with it. Whereas with some sort of even vague rhyme, or metrical scheme, or any kind of formal parameters, I suppose, there’s at least something holding it together for me.” Realizing that she had been talking about herself, perhaps for too long, Drew quickly added, “Which poets have you translated?”

  She heard him take a breath. “Just one, professionally. The poet Viktor Elsin. Nina Revskaya’s husband.”

  So that was the connection. Though she had mentioned Elsin in the biographical notes in the catalog, Drew knew little about him. But now a single puzzle piece fell into place, the reason that Grigori Solodin owned a pendant linked to Revskaya’s collection. It must be because of her husband, whose work he had translated; perhaps Grigori Solodin was a collector of the poet’s memorabilia. But if that were the case, why hide that fact from Drew? Why hadn’t he simply explained to her his reason for owning the necklace? Drew’s imagination whirred as she said, with slight embarrassment, “I knew her husband was a poet, but I didn’t realize his poems were anything anyone read—I mean—that’s not what I meant to say. In English, that is—I didn’t realize his work was…available.”

  “No one does.” That dry joking tone he sometimes used.

  “I’d love to see it.”

  “His poetry?” Grigori Solodin’s surprise was audible.

  “Your translations. I’d very much like to see them.”

  “Oh, certainly. I can put some in the mail to you, I’d just need to photocopy them—”

  “I can come pick them up. And I can bring the other things with me. The phrases for the Samoilov search.”

  “That would be very good.”

  “I can come by tomorrow, after work.”

  Tomorrow he was busy, and the following day she was meeting her friend Kate at a wine tasting. They settled on Thursday. “Would five thirty be all right?”

  “I’ll be here.” Grigori gave her the department’s address and told her where to find him.

  “Excellent. And I’ll bring you a list of phrases to look for in Russian.”

  Even after she had hung up the phone, she could hear Grigori Solodin’s voice, that very slight accent, saying in a light, easy way, “See you.”

  NOT LONG AFTER her recovery, Nina and Viktor join Gersh and Vera at one of the few nightclubs in town. The hour is late enough—and the crowd sufficiently devoid of anyone official-looking—that the band has begun playing American jazz. Gersh, more inebriated than usual, recites a long Georgian toast that has them all laughing.

  Then it seems the band has made an error, the rhythm is off. After a few awkward measures the music finds a traditional rhythm, no longer resembles anything close to jazz.

  Nina and the others glance toward the entrance. A group of Party men, hefty in their big coats. With them are their women, each with a big silver fox neckpiece. And then Nina spots among them—sporting her own silver fox over her left shoulder, and the bright tangerine lipstick that is so popular—Polina.

  Seeing Nina and Vera, Polina waves extravagantly. She grabs her man by the arm and guides him over to the table, smiling, her faint freckles glowing. “Look who’s here!”

  Polina introduces the man, Serge is his name. Surprisingly handsome, tall and square-jawed, smooth gold-brown hair contrasting with dark eyes; he has the stern, slightly aloof expression of a trolley conductor inspecting tickets. A bit younger than the lackeys Polina usually goes with. The prideful look about him seems to come from strength rather than alcohol and too many potatoes. Nina is surprised to note, from the reserved familiarity with which Vera and Gersh greet him, that this is not the first time the two couples have met.

  Serge too is somewhat reserved, perhaps not wanting to appear, to his fellow Party men, too friendly with Gersh. Vera has pulled up a chair from the empty table next to her, while Polina takes a seat next to Viktor. He gives her a solicitous smile, already leaning toward her—but Nina knows that is just the way he is, and bristles only slightly as Polina beams coyly back at him.

  Serge has taken the seat beside Vera, asking, “And how is your Achilles?” in a concerned, somehow intimate tone. “Better, I hope?” Vera injured herself last week, not long after the article mentioning Gersh was published. Viktor teasingly calls it a “sympathizer’s injury.” But Nina doesn’t find it funny; there are few things more frustrating to a ballerina than not being able to dance.

  “If all goes well,” Vera says calmly, that slight distance in her tone, “I should be back by the end of next week.” She brushes her hair back with a little fluttery movement, her fingers long and thin.

  “Good, good.” Though Serge barely smiles, there is something fawning in his manner; it is the effect Vera has on all men, really—something wounded about her, with her great dark eyes and thin, pale frame. Even Viktor at times seems undone by her. In that same concerned voice, as if Gersh were not even present, Serge tells Vera, “I know Polina misses you on the nights you’re not in the dressing room with her.”

  “I told him about our tongue-twister contest,” Polina puts in brightly, laughing, her tangerine lips wide; she must not see anything lecherous in Serge’s allusion to the dressing room. Vera too laughs, and as Polina begins to explain to the rest of them, Nina realizes, with something like shock, that Polina and Vera have somehow, without Nina even noticing, become friends.

  The feeling that takes hold of her is much like the jolt she felt just a few weeks ago, when, on her night off, she went to visit Mother, only to find that she was not home. Worried, Nina waited, went out for a bit, then returned, quite late. Still in her coat, Mother had just gotten back, her cheeks rosy and cold from the night air, smiling proudly as she explained—as if it were the most natural thing in the world—that she had been at the Bolshoi; Vera had a new solo, which she had of course wanted to see.

  Serge has caught the waiter’s eye, raises his hand to command two more glasses and vodka for the table. Nina finds herself thinking that finally Polina has found someone who isn’t quite such a lummox. She has moved up, if one can call it that, from jowly hangers-on to a more senior bureaucrat. At least, that’s how it looks. Though younger than the others, this man appears to have some real power. But does Polina really want to be like those fat Nomenklatura wives? All the time Nina hears about the fall from grace of this or that government official.

  With surprising speed, the waiter delivers Serge’s order. They raise their glasses as Serge proposes a toast: “To tomorrow, bright budding flower.”

  It’s a line from one of Viktor’s poems—and something of a catchphrase these days. Another reminder of how popular his latest volume has become, though it still surprises Nina to hear Viktor’s words on someone else’s lips. His career, like Nina’s, has fully taken flight, not to mention that his income has doubled. Just last month he was appointed editor of a new arts magazine, as well as writing his usual column for Literaturnaya gazeta. And this coming year, as a reward of sorts, he is being dispatched along with two journalists to Paris, on a “goodwill” mission.

  The vodka slides down Nina’s throat. Polina says, “Oh, they’re waiting for us, we had better go join them.” She and Serge take their leave, and the way Serge’s eyes linger on Vera, Nina understands why he agreed to stop at their table.

  When they have gone, Gersh grumbles, “That man looks like a trout.”

  “Don’t be jealous, now,” Vera says, though with his slightly crossed eye and lowered reputation Gersh can hardly be blamed for feeling that way. Quietly, Vera adds, “He’s the sort you want on your side, you know. We ought to thank Polina.”

  Nina cannot help but glance toward their table, with the other men like Serge (who really doesn’t look anything like a trout) and the women in their bright orange lipstick. Viktor, with a brief, dismissive sigh, as if having reached the end of some sad story, simply says, “Poor Polina.”

  LOT 58

  Unm
ounted Fancy Pear-Shaped Pink Diamond. The modified brilliant weighing 2.54 cts., natural color, clarity VVS1. $100,000–150,000

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mounting the steep steps of the Department of Foreign Languages, Drew could hear voices, faint, growing louder. The secretary’s desk was empty, but there were more voices now, coming from down the hall, English being spoken with a Spanish accent…. Here was his office, “Grigori Solodin” engraved in a plastic nameplate on the door. Below the nameplate, scrawled on a big yellow Post-it, was a message:

  Drew,

  Called to dept. meeting, very sorry. I tried your office but you’d left. Book is below. You can leave rest for me in my box. Please excuse this hasty note,

  GS

  Her heart, absurdly, fell. She couldn’t have said why; the book was right here, propped up on the carpet against his office door. She picked it up and placed it in her leather satchel, removing the list she had typed out for Grigori Solodin. Sliding the page into his mailbox, she told herself that it was better he was not here. This way she could go straight home and have an early night, for once. She needed a quiet evening, a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow she would be up late again, flying out of Logan straight from work; Kate had found a last-minute deal and convinced her to come along, the Caicos Islands, four days, five nights, airfare and hotel included. All week Drew had been throwing things into the travel bag that sat unzipped in the corner of her bedroom, growing a messy heap.

  From the other end of the hallway, she could hear voices. Now it was a French accent, and someone else cutting in, the words muted behind the door. Perhaps that was where Grigori Solodin was right now, at that meeting.

  At home she found she had no appetite for dinner. She twisted open a jar of olives and poured herself a glass of wine, then curled up in the corner of the big lumpy sofa. Opening the book of Viktor Elsin’s poems, she read Grigori Solodin’s brief foreword, in which he explained the many difficult editorial decisions he had had to make—that as much as sound itself was important to these poems, in general he had chosen to forgo Elsin’s more rigid rhyme and metrical schemes in favor of closer approximation of his imagery and phrasing. As Drew turned the page, though, she was seized by an old, familiar fear, one that had begun all the way back in elementary school and that, perhaps thanks to Eric, she had never quite overcome: that the poems might be beyond her, that she might not quite understand. Even in college she had worried she might misread a poem and say something embarrassing in class.