by Judith Gould
Lies, lies, but what did they matter?
'Half!' the maid cried. 'Half!'
It was like riding with the devil.
Miraculously, less than six minutes had passed since the maid had last shouted 'Half!' Vladimir, drunk but spurred on by the prospect of a thousand roubles, unerringly led them to the very car Ivan had warmed up, pulled on the driving goggles, and let out the clutch of the open-topped Hispano-Suiza touring car. With a roar, the car shot out of the garages, its left fender crashing into the partially open door, tearing it off its hinges. The car swerved as Vladimir steered drunkenly toward the open gates. Then the wheels screeched in protest as he slammed on the brakes to take the turn, skidding brilliantly, as if he had chosen to do exactly that. After one and a half revolutions, the hood nosed in the right direction, and with a screech of tyres they were off.
'Careful!' Senda cried from the back seat, pressing Tamara's terrified face into her bosom while beside her Inge, forgetting herself, let out an indecipherable stream of thick German which closely resembled the Lord's Prayer.
Petrograd flew past in a blur. One second, they were on the near side of the Neva; the next, the car shot over the far side of the bridge.
'This car and no traffic?' Vladimir turned around and grinned at Senda. 'We might get to the train yet!'
'Just watch where you're driving!' she shouted back above the roar of the wind. 'Don't look at me! Look at the street!'
Laughing wildly, Vladimir floored the gas pedal. Senda let out a cry. Ahead of them, an angry crowd of protesters blocked an intersection.
'Vlaaaadiiimiiiiir,' she yelled, shutting her eyes.
He headed straight for the centre of the crowd and leaned on the air horn. The crowd flew apart.
'We'll get there!' he shouted again, swigging from an open bottle of champagne.
Oh, God, let us hope so! Senda prayed, adding an amendment: In one piece, dear Lord. In one piece.
On its shunting, beyond the farthest reaches of the remote Vyborg quarter, the Danilov train stood in readiness, enormous white clouds of steam billowing up from the undercarriages of the locomotive, coaches, and boxcars before being shredded to pieces and torn away by the wind. Inside the richly appointed main carriage with its opulent panelling, shaded ormolu wall sconces and rich jewel-box furnishings, Vaslav Danilov stirred restlessly in an armchair upholstered in crimson brocade. The lace-draped table beside him held a silver samovar, books, bibelots, a cigar humidor, and a large crystal bowl filled with sevruga caviar set in a larger bowl of shattered ice.
The Prince looked at the caviar, then the humidor. He had little appetite for either food or tobacco. Suddenly he got to his feet and crossed to the far window, cupping his hand against the glass to shadow his own mirrored reflection. The night was as dark and still and empty on this side of the train as it was on the other.
He tightened his lips and cracked his knuckles. He was as tense as a wound-up cat.
Princess Irina studiously kept her eyes on the open book in her lap. 'Sit down, Vaslav,' she said gently, turning a page. 'Nervousness on your part will not help her get here any sooner.'
He turned to her in surprise. 'You knew?' he asked hoarsely. 'All along?'
'Whom we've been waiting for? And why?' She marked her place carefully with the thin velvet ribbon she used as a bookmark and looked up at him. 'About her, yes. And the others. Everyone knew. Why shouldn't I?'
'But . . . but you never said anything.'
'I could not blame you,' she said calmly, 'so why should I have said anything? After all, I am not an especially attractive woman.' She glanced down at her arthritically clawed hands and sighed. 'These are not the hands of a model lover.'
He took the chair opposite hers, lifting his trousers with a pinch of their knifelike creases, and sat forward with his hands dangling between his splayed legs. 'I haven't been a model husband to you, have I?'
She looked at him gently, reached out, and touched his arm. 'You have given me everything you were able to give,' she said softly. 'You shared your life with me in every way but one. Is that so bad?'
He grimaced painfully.
'I am not complaining, Vaslav. I only want you to know that I have understood. Just as I understand now why you are nervous that she is not here.'
'And you are not jealous?'
She permitted herself a tinkling little laugh. 'I am, I must admit. Especially of her. The others . . . well, they did not count much. But she must be very special. She was the first woman you saw monogamously for a period of more than three years.' She slipped across to his chair and sat on the brocade arm, stroking his head with her deformed fingers.
'I have let you down,' he said stonily. 'I thought I was discreet—' His voice broke suddenly.
'And you have been. I have no complaints.'
The tears welled in her eyes as she regarded him with a fondly tilted head. She loved him so much, had given herself to him in every way that she could. What fault was it of his that soon after their marriage the arthritis had set in and systematically destroyed her beauty? True, she still ached to feel his body beside hers, inside her, but how much more could she have asked of him than a steady if passionless love? She herself was disgusted by her hands. How could she expect him to want her to touch him?
'We'll wait for her as long as we can,' Irina said unexpectedly. 'I wish her no harm. You must believe that.'
He took one of her hands and pressed it against his cheek. 'I will not see her again,' he promised, 'but I must help her. I owe her that much.'
The Princess nodded. 'Yes, you do.'
They both looked up as they heard the door at the end of the carriage sliding open and shut. Count Kokovtsov approached them stiffly, his hands at his sides. 'We cannot wait much longer,' he intoned lugubriously. 'The danger increases with every additional minute of delay. This train has been ready to depart for half an hour.'
'We will wait twenty minutes longer,' the Princess said firmly, cutting off any further argument.
She felt Vaslav's meaningful response in the way he pressed her hand. It was his silent way of thanking her.
She turned to him and smiled at the way he was looking at her so wonderingly, and she waited until the Count was back in the forward carriage before she kissed her husband quickly on the lips.
'Sometimes I wonder why I deserve you,' he said softly.
'Because I love you,' she replied. 'That we cannot share everything does not make my love for you any the less.' She gazed into his eyes. 'Do you know how often I reminisce about when we first met?'
'It was at the Bal Blanc, and I had a hell of a time getting a dance with you between all those handsome officers in their tight uniforms and that chaperoning sphinx.'
'Aunt Xenia!' she whispered, delighted that he remembered.
'Yes, Aunt Xenia. A regular dragon. She never did approve of me.'
'Hush. She liked you very much. She just never showed her emotions.'
They both smiled, the memory as alive as though it had all happened only yesterday.
Count Kokovtsov's face was devoid of emotion. 'Twenty minutes have passed,' he murmured.
The Prince nodded calmly. 'Tell the engineer to pull out.'
Irina reached for her husband's hand and held it. She knew he was feeling as if a part of him was being wrenched loose from his body.
Now there is only me for him to love, she thought. I don't have to share his affections with anyone else. The one mistress he has truly loved is out of his life. I should feel elated.
Why don't I?
The Hispano-Suiza shot past the derelict warehouses and rattled over the expanse of deserted, horizontally laid rails. Each time the tires hit the raised ties or rails, the car jumped and Senda could feel her teeth jarring under the impact. Her face was streaked with tears from the force of the wind. She kept wiping her eyes and craning her neck. Where was that train?
Suddenly she saw it. 'There!' she cried. 'To the right! It's the train!' She point
ed and stood up, clutching the leather-upholstered back of the driver's seat with one hand for support.
Vladimir wrenched the steering wheel and they rode parallel to the rails now, the ties thumping beneath the tires.
'It's starting to move!' Senda screamed as the locomotive's smokestack spewed a shower of sparks skyward. 'Drive faster, damn it! Get closer!'
Vladimir took another swig of champagne, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and drew his lips back across his teeth in a grin. He floored the gas pedal, steering directly toward the train so that the car jumped from one track to the adjacent one, then steering forward again on a parallel course before jumping to the next set of tracks. Still on her feet, Senda clung to the driver's seat for dear life.
'Hurry!' she urged Vladimir. 'Hur-rrrry!'
The brightly lit windows of the three passenger coaches glowed yellow in the night. The fierce pounding of her heart and the rushing of her blood roared in her ears.
They were racing alongside the train now. The air smelled heavily of smoke, and Inge pressed Tamara's face into her bosom so that the child might be spared the stinging orange showers of sparks. She kept slapping her own face each time she felt the piercing barbs and screamed in German. Beside the car, the slowly moving boxcars which comprised the rear of the train flew past in a blur as the car started overtaking the train. The last of the three passenger coaches behind the coal tender was coming up, the big square windows radiant with light.
Splaying her legs in a precarious stance for balance, Senda began screaming and waving her arms frantically as she saw the back of the Princess's neatly coiffed head sliding into view. Then her heart surged as she caught sight of Vaslav's familiar, unmistakable profile.
'Vaslav!' she yelled. 'Stop the train! Vaslav!'
Inge joined in the screaming. Vladimir leaned relentlessly on the air horn, filling the night with its raucous blare. Metal train wheels clicked and roared.
Then a face filled the window, and Count Kokovtsov smiled chillingly down at her, the fingers of one hand curling slowly up and down in a wave.
'What on earth is that infernal racket?' the Princess asked fearfully. She glanced at Mordka, her eyes lined with worry. Is there trouble?'
'Nothing we need worry about.' The Count's lips tightened and he swiftly loosened the tie-back curtains, drawing the velvet draperies across the window. 'But I suggest you do not show yourselves. I believe it is a band of revolutionaries.'
'Then all is lost!' the Princess exclaimed in horror.
'No,' the Count said, shaking his head and talking loudly in order to drown out the shouts and honks coming from outside. If only the car horn continued to blare, he hoped; it drowned out the voices.
'But if it is the revolutionaries—' the Prince began.
'We are just metres from the canal bridge,' Count Kokovtsov explained. 'Once we cross it they will not be able to follow. We will be safe.'
The Prince started toward the next window to look out. Mordka swiftly stepped in front of him to bar his path. 'It is too dangerous, cousin,' he said solicitously. 'You have too many responsibilities. We cannot afford for you to come to harm. They might shoot, you know.'
'Vaslav, please do sit,' the Princess begged. 'I do not want you to get hurt!'
The Prince hesitated, and Mordka held his breath.
Reluctantly Vaslav took a seat.
'You can't slow down!' Senda screamed. Disregarding any thought of safety, she began pummelling Vladimir's head and shoulders with clenched fists. 'Speed up, I tell you! We've got to catch up!'
Vladimir grimaced under her glancing blows, unable to shield himself. Without warning, he hit the brakes so hard that they locked. The car swerved, lurched, and finally skidded to a halt so suddenly that Senda nearly toppled over the windshield. She managed to grab it just in time. For a moment no one moved. Then slowly each of them let out a deep breath and began to test their joints.
'Whew! That was close.' Vladimir upended the champagne bottle but it was empty. He scowled.
'Why did you stop?' Senda cried, tears of frustration streaming from her eyes. 'We were so close, damnit. So close.'
'See for yourself,' Vladimir said grimly.
She sniffled and looked to her right. The train was picking up speed, steadily click-clacking across an iron-girdered bridge. Then she threw a glance forward and sucked in her breath. There were no more tracks at this end of the railroad yard except for the solitary set of rails crossing the bridge. And small wonder. The car's headlights shone out across black, brackish water. For a moment she could only stare.
They had come to a halt on a jutting embankment, and the hood of the car hovered in midair. Four metres below was water. Another half-metre and they would have plunged into the icy waters of the canal.
It had been a close call.
She gazed after the departing train. Her throat clogged as she watched the last box car disappear across the bridge in a shower of sparks. Then the huffing locomotive sounded fainter, was receding into the stillness of the night.
Slowly Senda sank down into the seat. Her face was ashen. Suddenly she felt the cold, empty numbness of defeat. 'What do we do now?' she asked in a strained whisper. 'What do we do now?'
She felt Inge reach across and envelop her in her arms. 'Now,' Inge said simply, 'we will just have to get to Geneva on our own somehow. If you taught me one thing,' she said, her blue eyes sparkling, 'it is never to give up.'
Senda looked at her in surprise. 'I did?'
'You did.' Inge leaned back in her seat, folded her hands in her lap, and burst out laughing as Vladimir put the Hispano-Suiza in reverse. 'I wouldn't like to do this again, but I must say, I've never experienced anything quite as exciting as this ride.'
Suddenly Senda joined in the laughter. Perhaps it was relief after the close brush with death; whatever it was, it felt good to be alive. Maybe things weren't so bad after all.
'Back across the Neva?' Vladimir called over his shoulder.
'No, to the ferry station,' Senda said.
'You're going to Finland? Well, I hope you have papers. The Finns are sticklers for such things.'
'Papers?' Senda repeated dully.
'You know, documents. Passports. Things like that.'
Senda shook her head. 'No, we don't.'
'Then you'll find it easier getting papers in Poland. I heard the Polish border is much more relaxed. I'd better take you to the train station.'
'But slowly,' Senda begged as he shifted gears. 'Please drive slowly.'
They arrived in Warsaw a little more than two months later. The stop-and-go journey had taken its toll.
Senda took ill. At first she dismissed her coughs and bouts of fever as nothing more than a cold she couldn't throw off. She had always enjoyed the best of health and wasn't too worried. But when the coughs erupted from deep within her lungs, and the fevers persisted, and her thick phlegm was tainted with blood, Inge became alarmed. She insisted that Senda see a doctor.
'No. No doctor,' Senda insisted weakly with as much emphasis as she could muster. 'We can't afford one.' Sick as she was, the incessant worries about money took precedence.
Inge did not argue. If this wasn't an emergency, she didn't know what was. She put Senda to bed and waited until she was asleep. Then she cut open the lining of Senda's coat, where the yellow diamond sunflowers had been sewn, and went out seeking the best jeweller in town.
So what if she only got a fifth of what the brooch was worth? Now there was enough money to get them through another few months—and to summon a doctor.
Inge knew her priorities, and Senda's health came first.
Dr. Buchsbaum was a short, gnomish man who despite his kindness was one to never mince words. 'I'm afraid the prognosis is not very good,' he told Senda with a frown. 'I'm not quite certain yet, but I think it's safe to assume that you suffer from pulmonary consumption.'
'Consumption!' Senda looked at him incredulously.
He nodded gravely and reached out a
quieting hand. 'I'm afraid so. But given rest, care, and fresh air, it needn't be the end of the world.'
Senda shut her eyes, allowing the dread to wash over her. She hadn't been expecting good news, but this! For a moment she wanted to laugh hysterically. What irony! Just when they had escaped the revolution unscathed, her health had to deteriorate! More ironically yet, was she doomed to become a real-life Lady of the Camellias? And how was she going to care for her daughter . . . and for Inge ... if she had consumption? What was she going to do for money? For Tamara's future? A few months more, and the ring would have to be sold too.
Long hours after the doctor left, Senda lay in her bed, coughing up blood.
Tamara tugged at her arm and sniffled. 'Mama! Are you going to be all right?'
'Of course I am, angel. I'm just a little tired.' Senda smiled briefly. 'All I need is some rest. Even mamas need their rest sometimes, you know.'
After Inge gently shooed Tamara out, Senda lay there, weak and worried.
She needed help, and she knew of only one person who could give it.
Suddenly, it was more important than ever that they reach Geneva . . . and Vaslav. With her own declining health, Tamara's future loomed large and uncertain.
Chapter 23
The Danilov estate outside Geneva was rivalled only by the gargantuan palaces they had roamed about in Russia. More moderate in scale and grandeur than their magnificent Russian homes, Château Gemini was nevertheless the most splendid residence along Lac Léman. Set in a magnificent park of venerable trees and manicured statuary-decorated lawns which sloped gently down to the edge of the lake, it afforded an unrivalled vista of sailboat-studded blue water and spectacular mountain ranges—the silver-peaked Alps capped with dazzling dentures of blinding white snow. From the lake one could catch a glimpse of the massive, nineteenth-century mansion rising like a stone island from behind the thickly leafed oaks and ancient conifers, but from land the view was severely restricted because a cornice-crowned sixteen-foot-high stone wall completely encircled the forty-six-acre park.