The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Mademoiselle,’ Zoya said as she entered Marie’s bedroom a few minutes later, ‘but your parents are asking for you to join them and a guest in the drawing room.’

  Marie quickly changed into a new lavender dress with a dropped waist. She checked her reflection in the mirror then, satisfied, walked briskly to join her family.

  She found the visitor and Valentin sitting at either end of a double settee, while Monsieur Kulbas sat in his favourite armchair, holding the hand of her mother, who sat alone on the second settee.

  Letting go of his wife’s hand, Monsieur Kulbas stood, took his daughter’s elbow and led her to the visitor. Marie saw that he had a kind face, despite the deformity. His suit was old, judging by the frayed cuffs, and he seemed ill at ease, looking around the richly furnished room with wide eyes.

  ‘Monsieur Ivanov, may I introduce you to my daughter, Marie.’

  ‘You look familiar, Monsieur, but I can’t remember where I know you from,’ Marie said after taking a seat beside her mother.

  ‘I had precisely the same feeling when you walked in,’ the visitor said with a rueful smile. ‘You look just like Nikolai.’

  Marie’s heart jumped at the mention of her brother’s name. ‘You knew Nikolai?’

  ‘Monsieur Ivanov was with Nikolai in the POW camp,’ Monsieur Kulbas explained. ‘He was with him when he passed away.’

  ‘He talked about you all the time.’ Ivanov looked at each of them in turn. ‘Nikolai loved you all very much.’

  Pauline Kulbas began to weep softly.

  ‘I’m sorry to upset you, Madame,’ Ivanov said. Placing his glass on the table, he stood to take his leave.

  ‘No, please stay and have supper with us,’ Monsieur Kulbas insisted. ‘We are having a small gathering to announce our daughter’s engagement.’

  Ivanov gestured to his clothes. ‘I’m not suitably dressed.’

  ‘I can lend you some of …’ Valentin stopped and glanced at his mother. Ivanov, too big to fit into Valentin’s clothes, would have to choose from Nikolai’s wardrobe. Pauline Kulbas smiled kindly at her son to show she wasn’t upset by his suggestion.

  Ivanov shook his head. ‘Thank you, but I will not impose on your hospitality any longer.’

  ‘What line of business are you in, Monsieur Ivanov?’ Monsieur Kulbas stood to shake hands with his guest.

  ‘I work in a factory.’ Ivanov’s eyes shifted nervously.

  ‘I hope you’re not one of those Bolsheviks.’

  ‘No, Monsieur. I’m a simple man. I don’t have any understanding of such things.’

  ‘And what brings you to Tallinn?’

  ‘My wife’s family has distant relations in Estonia,’ Ivanov explained. ‘I enquired after your family in Narva and they told me you had moved to Tallinn. I hope you don’t mind me calling on you without writing first. I had made a promise to Nikolai that I would.’

  ‘Not at all. And if there is anything we can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  Marie, too, shook hands with their visitor. ‘It’s such a pity you will not stay for supper. My fiancé was also in the war and he’ll be disappointed to have missed you.’

  Together the family escorted Ivanov to the door. Taking Ivanov’s hand in both of his, Herman Kulbas shook it warmly. ‘Thank you for coming. It has given our family great comfort to know Nikolai spent his last days with …’ His grip weakened and he let go of Ivanov’s hand.

  Ivanov grasped the older man’s arm and gave it a light squeeze. ‘Your son was a good man. He saved my life in the camp. My greatest regret is that I wasn’t able to do the same for him.’

  A week later, alone in his study, Alexei paced the room. Stopping at his desk, he rang the brass bell.

  ‘Please get my coat and hat,’ he told the valet.

  Outside he looked up and down the narrow laneway before making his way to Raekoja Plats, the city square. For days he had had the feeling he was being watched. His paranoia intensified when Marie told him of the unexpected visitor on the evening of their engagement.

  ‘The man might be a Bolshevik,’ Alexei warned. ‘What if he learns of my escape from the Red Army?’

  ‘That’s nonsense. He was here to visit relatives.’

  ‘How do you know he wasn’t lying?’

  ‘I don’t.’ She half turned to him. ‘But I know that the man I met was gentle and polite and, above all, he was a friend to my brother.’

  Marie’s assurances did little to soothe Alexei’s agitation. Walking along the cobbled streets, he thought he heard footsteps behind him. His pulse started to pound loudly in his ears. Pretending to look in a shop window, he scanned the street behind him in the glass’s reflection. Seeing no one, he continued down the main street to the jeweller where he was to meet Marie, but the sense of unease remained, like a cold chill across his back.

  ‘Darling, you worry too much,’ Marie said when he told her of his concerns. Choosing one of the shiny gold rings the jeweller had arranged on the velvet cloth, she slipped it over her finger and, holding her hand at arm’s length, gave it a critical appraisal.

  ‘Mademoiselle certainly has an eye for quality,’ the jeweller flattered her. ‘The ring is eighteen-carat rose gold and the amethyst at the centre is of the highest grade. May I show you a matching necklace?’

  ‘I have an uneasy feeling about the whole thing,’ Alexei whispered in her ear. ‘The Red Army is getting closer. It’s becoming too dangerous for us to remain here.’

  ‘What are you suggesting? That we leave Tallinn?’ Marie asked. ‘Alexei, have you lost your senses? What about the wedding?’

  She slipped off the ring and returned it to the tray. ‘I can’t decide. Could you please send a selection to the apartment?’

  ‘As you wish,’ the jeweller replied with a tight smile. Motioning for his apprentice to hold open the door, he bowed as Alexei and Marie left the shop.

  ‘We can bring the wedding forward,’ Alexei said when they were in the street.

  ‘Alexei!’ He could hear exasperation creeping into her voice. ‘We have two hundred guests attending, including your daughters, who are travelling from Paris. Can you imagine the chaos changing the date would cause?’ She checked her watch and, spotting her driver, waved him over. ‘I’m late for an appointment with my seamstress.’ Placing a gloved hand on Alexei’s arm, she leant close to kiss his cheek. ‘Be reasonable, Alexei.’ Cocking her head to one side, she smiled. ‘What’s a few more months, hmm?’

  Following Marie’s departure, the prickling uneasiness continued to nag at Alexei’s senses. He had heard there were men who forged identity papers and wondered if he should secure papers for himself and Marie in case the Bolsheviks closed in.

  Glancing in a shop window, he thought he saw a shadow melt behind a building and his unease increased. Entering the shop, he watched the footpath outside, waiting for the figure to emerge.

  ‘May I help you, Monsieur?’

  A sales clerk stood by his elbow. ‘Would you like me to show you something from the window?’

  Alexei pointed to a small blue and white vase in the display cabinet. ‘I’ll take that.’

  ‘That is an excellent choice. It is handcrafted Chinese porcelain dating to the Yuan Dynasty. The blue pigment is from the finest Persian cobalt.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Alexei said impatiently. ‘Here’s my card. My valet will make the necessary arrangements for payment.’

  ‘Of course and if I can assist in any other –’

  ‘You can assist by leaving me alone.’

  The clerk stared back uncomprehendingly. ‘As you wish, Monsieur.’

  Out in the streets, darkness had gathered around the buildings, turning them steel grey. Alexei was aware the clerk and the shop owner were watching him but he continued to look up and down the street from behind a large oriental statue.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Monsieur?’ the proprietor asked hesitantly.

  They must think me ec
centric, thought Alexei. ‘No thank you.’ Pulling out his wallet, he handed the clerk a generous tip. ‘You have been very helpful.’

  Walking away, Alexei was again gripped with the suspicion he was being followed. Quickening his step, he turned into Viru Street. Ahead of him, two towers marked the entry into the city’s medieval centre. Hailing a cabriolet, he gave the driver his address. As the cab pulled away, Alexei risked a glance through the rear window and saw a man run between the towers and fade into the darkness.

  On reaching the heavy doors of his building, he fumbled with the large brass key in his pocket. He shot a look up the dark street and saw a man, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, walking briskly towards him. There was something familiar about him.

  Alexei pushed the key into the lock but it wouldn’t turn. Behind him, the footsteps grew closer. He tried again, rattling the key in the lock.

  The footsteps were almost upon him. A cold drop of sweat ran the length of his back. His heart hammering, he looked around for something he could use as a weapon. Finding nothing, he filled his lungs and turned to face the street. If his assailant came at him with a knife, he knew how to fight him.

  He watched the dark figure move past his building with no more than a cursory look.

  Alexei waited for a few more minutes before slowly expelling the air from his lungs. Turning to the door, he tried the key again, and this time it turned easily.

  Upstairs he took a few moments to collect himself. A large fire warmed the library. Pavlov, his valet, brought in the afternoon post on a silver tray, then waited for Alexei to dismiss him.

  ‘That will be all, thank you, Pavlov,’ Alexei said.

  Pavlov dipped his head in acknowledgment. A few minutes later, Alexei heard Pavlov close the door to the apartment behind the last of the staff. Out of the staff of six, only Pavlov and the cook had quarters in the apartment. The rest left in the evenings and returned at six in the morning.

  Rifling through his mail, Alexei noticed the yellow paper of a telegram and pulled it from under the pile.

  It was from Emily.

  Opening it, he read the few lines. Heat spread from his neck to the roots of his hair.

  ‘Irena,’ he muttered in frustration, ‘how could you?’ Crumpling the telegram, he threw it in the fire, watching as the edges of yellow paper curled and blackened before being consumed by the flames.

  To end Irena’s affair, Alexei had suggested sending her on a cruise to the southern hemisphere in the company of a chaperone. But despite the close supervision, Irena had jumped ship in Sydney and run off with a cabin boy.

  Lighting a cigarette, Alexei moved to the window and looked down at the deserted street. It had started to rain and a young couple, their bodies linked under a single umbrella, hurried along the footpath. The woman’s peals of laughter echoed down the street.

  Temporarily forgetting Irena, Alexei smiled at the lovers who had taken shelter in a doorway, laughing and kissing. Startled by something behind them, they suddenly stopped, then stepped back into the rain and disappeared around the corner.

  Alexei detected a slight movement in the space they had vacated. A figure shifted and moved then a man emerged from the doorway, walking away in the opposite direction from the couple.

  Stopping under a streetlight, he turned and looked up at Alexei’s building.

  Alexei’s throat went dry as he recognised the coat and hat of the stranger who had had passed him earlier in the evening.

  57

  Estonian Border, November 1919

  In the officers’ tent, Bogoleev studied the map. Red marks showed the advance of the Red Army across the border into Estonia. Having only recently gained independence, Estonia now faced the possibility of losing it again to the Bolsheviks. Bogoleev smiled. Victory was close at hand and he would soon take his revenge against Serov.

  He should have had Serov shot the first time he tried to escape, he thought angrily. Instead, Bogoleev foolishly gave him another chance. How smug he must feel, believing he has outwitted me, Bogoleev thought. How he must mock me to his fancy friends.

  To have him killed by an assassin would not be enough, Bogoleev decided. He wanted to see Serov humiliated, to see the fear in his eyes as he begged for mercy. Then, if he was lucky, Bogoleev would put him out of his misery with a bullet through the head.

  Reaching for his flask, he unscrewed the top and took a long draught. Then, turning from the map, he faced the group of soldiers drinking vodka around the table. Red-rimmed eyes stared back at him. In the distance the faint rumblings of enemy artillery continued.

  ‘Comrades,’ Bogoleev began, ‘Russia will soon be united under Soviet power.’ His fingers brushed lightly over the shrapnel scar where a dull ache throbbed. ‘Our brothers stand united before a disorganised and leaderless White Army.’

  The men nodded in agreement. Bogoleev smiled but his eyes remained cold. The pulsing ache at his temple grew more intense.

  ‘The American and French troops are pulling out,’ he pressed on, ‘leaving the White Army to fight on its own.’ Walking around the table, Bogoleev took a glass and filled it with vodka. ‘It presents us with an excellent opportunity to defeat the White Army once and for all.’

  ‘Za vas.’ Raising his glass, he downed its contents in a single gulp and, as the men cheered, held it out to be refilled.

  Later the same evening, Bogoleev sent a telegram to Ivanov.

  Events progressing as hoped STOP Keep close watch on our friend STOP.

  Tallinn, December

  The café bustled with late-afternoon trade. Moving to a table at the back, Ivanov chose a seat that gave him a clear view of the street. All around him the talk was of the battles between the White and Red armies.

  Two men hunched over a backgammon board paused to discuss the latest news.

  ‘To think, our army almost pushed the Bolsheviks back to the gates of Petrograd,’ one man said. ‘If they had only persevered a little longer.’

  His friend shook the dice in his big hand then threw them onto the board. ‘Personally, I don’t trust those lying aristocratic Whites any more than I trust the Reds.’

  Outside, a mother holding tight to the hand of a young child hurried across the cobblestone lane and disappeared behind the walls of a courtyard. Ivanov thought of Marina hurrying home with their son and daughters to prepare the evening meal, and a knot tightened around his throat. Little Lyova would have changed in the months he had been away. In her last letter, Marina wrote that he was learning his alphabet.

  Ivanov ached with his whole body to be with them. He decided he would ask Bogoleev for leave once his assignment was over.

  At the table next to him, one of the backgammon players was recounting to his friend the plight of a refugee woman he had met.

  ‘The Red Army took everything from her. And when she resisted, she said that they beat her and her family.’

  Ivanov turned his head away, not wishing to hear any more. It was proving harder each day to convince himself that such force was necessary. It was one thing to take from the gentry, another to take from the hands of the peasants. Opening the telegram he had received that morning from Bogoleev, he read the message. Over the months, he had sent several reports on Serov, each time stopping short of mentioning Marie. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw them enter the jewellery shop together. Enquiring after them, he was told the couple were there to select an engagement gift for the young lady but had left without a purchase following some disagreement.

  Ivanov had gaped at the jeweller. ‘You mean to tell me she plans to marry that man?’

  ‘Go in peace, my son.’ The jeweller had smiled kindly, mistaking Ivanov’s reaction to that of a spurned lover. ‘God is closest to those with broken hearts.’

  The bell above the café door jangled and a young man with dark hair walked in. For a fleeting moment, Ivanov thought he was looking at a ghost. The man’s gait and the easy smile with which he greeted the other patrons reminded
him of Nikolai. Ivanov stared at the man’s back as he removed his hat and jacket. Sensing Ivanov’s eyes on him, the newcomer turned and gave him a friendly nod before making his way to a table of young men engaged in an animated discussion on Estonia’s future.

  Ivanov’s heart cut loose inside his chest. He missed Nikolai. To the Bolsheviks, the interests of the party came before friends or family. But Ivanov could never adhere to that demand. Nikolai had been like a brother to him. Since learning of Marie’s engagement to Alexei, Ivanov had spent nights tossing in his bed, debating whether he should warn the Kulbas family of the danger they were facing. To warn them, he would betray Bogoleev and the Party. To stand back and do nothing would be a betrayal of Nikolai. Increasingly unpredictable, Bogoleev was capable of ordering the execution of the whole family, including the elderly parents.

  He needed time: time to think and to consider his options. But time was a luxury that was fast running out. With the Reds in Narva, it would not be long before Bogoleev made his way to Tallinn.

  Reaching a decision, Ivanov pulled a notebook from his satchel. Tearing out a page, he scribbled a few words then folded the piece of paper and put it in an envelope. Placing some coins for his coffee on the table, he hurried to the post office.

  Zoya arranged the morning’s mail along with the daily newspaper on a tray next to two cups of tea and a plate of fresh pastries and carried them to Pauline and Herman Kulbas.

  Sitting in his armchair, Monsieur Kulbas read the newspaper, stopping at intervals to read aloud from articles his wife might find interesting. Similarly, his wife shared news and gossip gleaned from the letters or asked her husband’s advice before responding to invitations.

  ‘This one is addressed to you, Herman.’ Pauline Kulbas turned the envelope over. ‘There’s no sender’s name or address on it.’

  Herman Kulbas took the envelope and opened it.

  ‘It’s anonymous.’ He swallowed, colour draining from his face. ‘It says, Cheka has been hunting Alexei since he deserted the Red Army. As a consequence, it adds, Marie’s life is also in danger!’