The Lost Season of Love and Snow

by Jennifer Laam

  * * *

  I awoke sore and happy, Alexander snoring at my side. Tendrils of weak winter sun streamed through the thin drapes, illuminating the floral design on the wallpaper. I found my spectacles on the floor and wondered if I would ever wear them again without a powerful surge of arousal.

  The ormolu clock on our mantel confirmed it was not yet six a.m., but I was too excited to sleep further. I pounded playfully on Alexander’s bare shoulders. “Wake up, lazy boy.”

  “Not yet, wifekin.” Without opening his eyes, he pulled me in for a slow, deep kiss, but when I continued to pound on his shoulders he batted my hands away like a kitten.

  I would come to learn my husband required strong Turkish coffee, the morning papers, and a cold bath before becoming sensible. I was not so patient. I was flying. I snatched a thin robe from the bureau, barely wrapped it around my shoulders, and proceeded to the dining room—spectacles on, hair unbound, and feet bare. I would never have dared such an appearance before Mother, but I was the lady of this house.

  I had never felt so free.

  The house may have been sparsely furnished, but it no longer seemed so intimidating. I located a servant’s bell hanging from a cord and pulled until the pealing sound filled the room.

  A thin, meek-looking maid peeked out from the kitchen. She could not have been more than fifteen. Alexander had introduced me to her, along with his elderly valet and some other servants, but I had been so flustered by our wedding I could scarcely keep their names straight. “Madame Pushkina?”

  It took me a moment to realize she meant me. I nodded, now slightly embarrassed. I knew the flush of my conjugal night clung to me yet. “What is your name?”

  She gave a quick curtsy. “Elizaveta, but I prefer Liza. Would you care for something to break your fast? I’ll inform cook.”

  “Hot cocoa?” I said. “And perhaps some scones with extra butter?”

  She scurried back to the kitchen. While I waited, I decided to poke around. I felt too shy to explore Alexander’s personal study, but he kept an additional writing table in the parlor and a shelf crammed with books. I found myself drawn to a silver framed portrait and leaned in for a better look. Alexander’s African ancestor, Abram Gannibal, returned my gaze. His hair was tied back into a short ponytail with a bow and he wore the formal naval uniform of the seventeenth century. His gold buttons gleamed. There was something of Alexander in his expression; he stared out at the world with a teasing glance. I might have thought it strange Alexander kept a picture of Abram Gannibal but not his parents, except now I had met them and their hearts of stone. Little wonder he related better to his long-dead ancestor.

  Next to the portrait, a bound journal smelling of fresh leather rested. I thought of my own writings, safely tucked away in one of my valises. I had dabbled with some verse before our wedding, trying to capture in words the glorious anticipation that stirred inside me when I gazed on Alexander’s face. And yet, now that I could compare my own weak attempts so closely to the magnificent words of my husband, I felt it my fate in life to be a reader, rather than a writer, and kept my own creative expressions to myself.

  The notebook had a hook across the front, but had not been locked. I cracked it open, lightly running my hand over Alexander’s random scribblings and drawings: notes on Mozart, rants over Onegin, and a drawing of petite feet in ballerina’s slippers. These gave me pause. I had never worn such slippers and wondered whose feet he meant to represent. I did not dwell long, however, but turned the page quickly and then recoiled as though bit by a snake.

  Alexander had drawn the figure of a slim young man in a military uniform and heavy boots; feet tied together, hands tied behind his back. The gallows stood shaded in the background. The young man’s neck fit tightly in a noose and his head drooped at an awkward angle. My heart began to palpitate. When I turned to the next page, I saw a similar picture, but this time with five men hanging in a row on the scaffolds.

  I slammed it shut. Clearly Alexander’s lost friends remained on his mind. What if he intended to write about the Decembrists and word of it reached the tsar? I had heard whispered stories of late-night knocks on the door, the secret police forcing men from their beds at night while their wives and children cried and pleaded for mercy. They might take Alexander from me and throw him into the dungeon at the bottom of Peter and Paul Fortress in St. Petersburg. Men had died there, alone and forgotten, starved or drowned when the Neva’s waters rose too high. An image of Alexander’s face as a mask of death, sallow and drawn, flashed in my mind and I shook my head to rid it of the horror.

  “What have we here, then? Investigating my work?”

  I let out a cry and spun around, the sound of his voice startling me, as he came up behind and hugged me. When he saw the pictures, he released me, backing away.

  “I was snooping about … I’m sorry about your friends.” The tsar’s dungeon masters could not have extracted a confession more efficiently than the mournful look in Alexander’s eyes. I nodded toward the sketch of a soldier swinging from the gallows. “You still think of them?”

  “I was not there to witness their deaths myself, but I have heard the day described often enough.” His voice was so soft I ducked my head to hear him. “Sometimes I dream of it at night. With the slightest turn of fate, my neck might have snapped under the weight of the ropes.”

  “But it did not. You were meant to be of this earth.”

  “Perhaps. But a mere trifle saved me from that fate. I was on my way to St. Petersburg that December. I would have arrived in time to join the officers in their revolt. By God, I would have, for I believed in their cause. A constitution! Can you imagine it, my Natalie?”

  The passion in his voice alarmed me and I wondered if he risked speaking this way around others. “I have not dared to imagine it.”

  “It was a hare who stopped me. A small beast! The fluffy scoundrel scurried across the road in front of our sleigh. Missed the horses’ hooves by a fraction and hopped along his way without a care, while I was in a frenzy. You have heard this is a bad omen, have you not? A hare crossing your path?”

  I bit my lip listening to Alexander’s story, leaving it plump and sore. “I thought black cats were bad luck.”

  “Black cats? Why on earth would one consider such magnificent creatures bad luck? You sound like an Englishwoman. No, I ordered the driver to turn around and delayed my trip to St. Petersburg rather than risk bad fortune. A hare kept me from meeting with the Decembrists. A hare kept me from being strung up on the gallows along with them. Now tell me how much thinner the line between life and death could possibly be but by a hare. Tell me that is naught but folk superstition.”

  “I will tell you no such thing. I only wish we could find that darling animal and make a pet of it to show our gratitude.”

  “Yes, well … I don’t much care for the beasts, but perhaps we might keep a cat or two. Black cats, I think.”

  The maid, Liza, entered the room with my hot cocoa, and Alexander asked for his usual strong coffee before sinking onto a divan. Soon the aroma of java mingled with chocolate filled the room and I felt better. A fire blazed in the hearth, flames twisting and snapping. Through the window, I watched snow falling onto cobblestones and heard the distant jingling of sleigh bells. Perhaps we might arrange things so we never left this flat, remaining forever in our little cocoon, safe from the rest of the world. Then Alexander could never share his rebellious thoughts on a constitution with anyone who might report such words to the tsar’s spies.

  Once Alexander finished his coffee, I found my way onto his lap. He refused to kiss me, claiming the coffee soiled his breath, but his hand slid beneath my gown. I worried for a moment that one of the servants might see. Yet this was our place, and we were married, so I could do anything that gave me pleasure and the world could not stop me.

  “First, I’ve something delightful to show you.” His face flushed as he withdrew his hand.

  I followed Alexander as he sprang up
from the divan and approached his writing table. He lifted one of the ink blotters and retrieved a small silver key from underneath. “I want you to see what keeps me occupied when I am feeling low or restless or any of the many moods that plague a man from time to time.”

  At last, I was to become his true muse, entrusted with his work, offering valued opinions and suggestions. I nodded, expecting to soon read his new verse.

  Alexander crouched to reach a lower drawer and turned the key in a lock. He opened the drawer and I peered over his shoulder.

  “Oh!” I said as he lifted a rectangular wooden box and opened the lid. Inside, a pistol with a pearl-colored handle and a long barrel nestled in a velveteen lining, the way a piece of jewelry might. Or a corpse in a coffin.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Alexander stroked the pearl handle with the same loving attention Mother lavished on her brown tabby. “A fellow never knows when he might need it.”

  I stared, dumbfounded, at the weapon. “I did not know there were guns in this house.”

  “I have it safely locked away.” Alexander centered himself and pointed the pistol at a random spot on the wall. “I find it most calming when I need to think. Stand back for a moment. And you may want to cover your ears.”

  While Alexander straightened his shoulders, I stuck my fingers in my ears as instructed. His form was perfect, one arm extended and one arm carefully behind his back, while his bare feet stood shoulder width apart. His eyes focused intently on the target before him.

  Alexander liked to play the role of Evgeny Onegin: the perfect Russian dandy. He had drawn sketches of himself wandering the bridges of St. Petersburg with his fictional creation; apart from the wild black curls under the top hat of the figure meant to represent Alexander, you could scarcely tell the two apart. Nevertheless, despite his perfect stance, I could not picture him as Onegin right now, but Lensky, crumpling to the ground under the fatal bullet.

  “No, Alexander … Sasha…” I used the term of endearment to see if it might have a soothing effect. “Perhaps you could take target practice outside.”

  “I assure you I know what I’m doing.” Alexander fired and the pistol erupted. A wax bullet struck the wall, making a pocked mark sizzling with heat.

  “Perfect!” he declared, striding forward. “I tell you this is great fun. At my old bachelor’s flat, I spelled out my name. If you like, I can assist with your form and you can start your name.”

  My heart pumped so quickly I thought I might expire. “I believe I can find other occupations to keep my hands busy.”

  “I am certain of that.” He gave me a sly wink.

  I looked down demurely though a chill spiked in my chest. If Alexander grew restless enough to write his name by firing wax bullets into a wall, I would need to keep him busy. I had thought we would be safe if we kept ourselves apart from the rest of the world, but now I saw how wrong I had been. Certainly our private pleasures would command his attention, but I thought it best we partake of the pleasures of social life as well. Anything to keep him away from his prized weapon.

  Eight

  My desire for distraction was soon granted when we were invited to a public costume ball and concert to raise funds for victims of the recent cholera epidemic. It was to be held at the Bolshoi Petrovsky Theater, and I thought it would be great fun to dress in costume for the occasion. I still had fond memories of the evening I portrayed Dido’s sister and thought I could repurpose the gown into a reasonable likeness of the love goddess, Venus. Inhabiting such a sensual persona would surely make for a pleasurable night afterward. In this spirit, I approached Alexander one morning while he was on his way to his study and began to rub his shoulders.

  “So affectionate, my angel.” When I caught his gaze, I saw light in his eyes, the subtle spark when a man is completely yours. There is an intoxicating power to it.

  “I should like to assume the persona of Venus for the ball next week,” I told him.

  “I can think of nothing more appropriate.”

  “Will you consider joining me as Mars?”

  Alexander grinned, but his shoulders tensed in my hands. “You see me as a god of war?”

  “I see you as the lover of Venus.” In my mind’s eye, I had a quick vision of Mother gasping, but I banished it. She had no further hold on me in real life and I should not allow her to haunt my imagination.

  “It is a charming idea, of course.” Alexander spoke quickly, the tenderness in his voice replaced with casual flirtation. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we can handle such an expense at the moment.”

  “I thought we keep our expenses to a minimum.”

  “Yes, but you see, I had a bit of bad luck when last I visited the English gentlemen’s club for faro…”

  I had not known Alexander continued to visit the card tables. My smile struggled to hold. I had hoped that as a married man he would find more genteel pursuits. Silently, I resolved to pay closer attention to our financial ledgers in the future.

  “I hope it doesn’t disappoint my angel, but I think we should conserve our limited funds.”

  “This isn’t a problem,” I said. “I intend to use the toga I wore when I performed for the tsar as Dido’s sister. You remember when I mentioned this, my love?”

  Alexander flinched. “Of course. Of course.”

  “I do not think it would be such an expense to dress you as Mars and we would make a striking pair, don’t you agree?”

  “You will.” He gave a tight smile.

  “We will together,” I insisted.

  “I shall think about it.” Gently, he lifted my hands from his shoulders. “Now I must face my stupid fit for the day.”

  I tilted my head. “Stupid fit?”

  “Only what I call my writing.” He shrugged and looked away with a twist of his lips that suddenly reminded me of his mother, the way she had looked at our wedding. “Sometimes all the happiness in the world comes from this endeavor, but I swear writing mostly drives me mad.”

  He disappeared into his study and shut the door. Though the news of his gambling losses vexed me, I accepted his reasoning. I had spent far too many years watching Mother slowly lose her soul over her household budget, and I wished to cause my new husband no pain in this regard.

  I kept my purchases to recreate the goddess of love to a bare minimum.

  The following week, we arrived at the theater: Alexander in a black evening coat and myself in the same toga and frayed crown of artificial laurel leaves I wore when I portrayed Dido’s sister. I had added a touch of gold braiding to my waist, but knew that without Mars at my side, the meaning of my costume was unclear. Still, I thought it suited me well enough.

  Unable to shake Mother’s admonitions from my mind, I chose not to wear my spectacles, and squinted to admire the chandeliers ablaze with candles, and the thick red carpet runners placed along the parquet flooring. Tsar Nicholas’s imperial insignia had been writ in an elaborate tapestry above the threshold. The lobby was humid and rife with exotic flowers imported from the south. I wondered if the money spent on the flowers might not have been better spent on victims of cholera, but kept this thought to myself.

  Alexander was immediately flanked by admirers. Many of them had not met me yet. My hand was kissed so often that a thin sheen of moisture formed and I wondered how soon I might find a washroom and scrub it clean.

  “My dear.” An older man with graying whiskers added his own spittle to the mess on my hand. “As beautiful as they say and yet I had not known you were so tall.”

  I was accustomed to people commenting on my height, particularly men, but had yet to find an appropriate response to such a vapid observation. I simply nodded and lowered my gaze, staring at my slippers, the low heels scuffed from overuse.

  “Indeed!” Alexander said, accepting a flute of champagne from a passing footman. “I find standing beside her a rather lowering experience.”

  The men chuckled at that, but I could not join in their merriment. I hadn’t real
ized Alexander minded our difference in height. If anything, I thought he rather liked it.

  They carried him off in a wave of questions and entreaties about the new literary journal Alexander had proposed to start based on an English model, with short pieces on literature, economics, and politics. The men’s voices competed with one another, asking if he might read and comment on their work, while I was left to sip a sweet cordial and pretend to admire a silver candlestick on a table near where I stood. Without my spectacles, I could see little else. I tried not to mind, but wished Alexander had thought to take my hand and lead me off with him, for I wished to stand next to my husband as proud wife and presumed muse. It seemed I now had the freedom of which I always dreamed while still trapped in Mother’s house, and yet somehow that wasn’t enough. I tried to concentrate on the strumming of the orchestra from inside the theater as they warmed their instruments for the concert, but the high sweet notes of the violin made me think of my father before his accident, when he still played his own violin on cold winter nights.

  Fortunately, I could not linger too long in the past. A pair of young women in togas stood next to one of the picture windows, under a garland of fresh orchids. A blonde rested her hand on a brunette’s shoulder, cupping her other hand to whisper something in her friend’s ear and then nodded at me. As they drew near, I squinted, trying to make out their features. They both had coiffed curls, glowing cheeks, and smiles filled with white teeth.

  “Mind if you’re joined by two of the Muses?” the blonde called out.

  I managed to fix a smile on my face. What else could I do? At least the cordial was going to my head and the room around me grew fuzzier.