Tima tried to keep playing, but Kolya’s cries escalated until finally—silence.
One of his friends nudged him. “Look at your brother.”
He dropped his stone and looked behind him. Kolya lay motionless on the ground. Tima jumped to his feet and ran to him. “Kolya,” he said, shaking the boy’s shoulder. “Kolya, wake up.”
After a moment, Kolya opened his eyes. “He pushed me down, Tima.” He took deep breaths, holding in his sobs. “Don’t worry, Tima, I won’t tell Mama.”
Tima hauled him up by his jacket. There was a thin trickle of blood on Kolya’s cheek where he’d fallen on a sharp stone. “You’re all right.” He spit on his fingers and wiped the blood from Kolya’s cheek. It was only a small cut.
“I called you, Tima. You didn’t come.” Kolya was staring at him, his expression sad. “You didn’t come.”
Timofey shrugged. “It’s time to go home. And remember, don’t tell Mama or Papa.”
Kolya tried to take Tima’s hand, but Tima pulled free and walked home in front of his brother.
In years to come, he never forgot that look on Kolya’s face, nor the sound of Kolya’s voice, nor how he’d jerked his hand away from his little brother.
Although he came to accept the solid, uneventful life for himself in Chita, Aleksandr Kasakov wished he could give his sons more. He knew what the future held for them in the isolated Siberian town, and often envisioned the career Timofey could have in the army or imagined Nikolai as a musician, playing in an orchestra for appreciative audiences in St. Petersburg or Moscow. He also knew they were only dreams.
When Tima was fourteen and Kolya seven, Aleksandr had been chilled by the first spots of blood coughed into his handkerchief. He hid it from his wife and sons as long as he could. Eventually the deep, endless coughing, followed by a sudden small hemorrhage, terrified his wife and frightened him into action.
Aleksandr expected Timofey to take over the business. From the first day he had put a strip of wood into his son’s hands and demonstrated what to do, the boy had tackled the work with skill and dexterity. On top of that, he was good with figures—quicker, Aleksandr had realized for the last year, than he himself at writing out the orders and making sure the rubles were collected.
“I am proud to have a son to carry on the business,” he often told Timofey. “You’ll never go hungry, because people will always need barrels. And when it’s time to marry and have your own family, you’ll be able to offer them a good life. As for your brother … well, he’s lucky that you’ll always be here to look after him. He’ll need you, Tima. Once your mother and I are no longer alive, you will be his only family.” Still, he worried whether Tima would really take his duty to his brother seriously. In the boy he recognized a sense of adventure, a dislike of being told what to do. Aleksandr felt his older son’s restlessness, and yet he assumed that Timofey was pleased to be heir to the family business.
Timofey did not appreciate his father’s descriptions of his future. The stories of Aleksandr’s former grand life in both Russia and Europe had awakened in Timofey a desire for exploration and challenges. Tima gave little thought to the issue of serfdom, in spite of his father’s explanations. The land here was as unforgiving and brutal as a cruel master. There was little hope of furthering oneself in the isolated steppes and wintry taigas of Asiatic Russia.
“You’ve never asked whether I like the work,” Timofey said to him. “You expect me to be satisfied with the monotony of planing for the rest of my life?” Tima hated the endless slivers embedded in his palms, the smell of the black pitch and the way it looked under his fingernails. “I don’t want to be a cooper forever.” His voice was bold.
Aleksandr sat silently while Tima paced in front of him, then asked, “What is it you would like to do, then?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t want to stay here.”
Timofey visualized a far more exciting future for himself, possibly in Irkutsk. It was much more civilized than Chita and, Tima had heard, quite a splendid town with its own theatre, a museum, municipal gardens where orchestras played concerts on warm evenings, and walkways made of wood over the mud streets. Although he had never been outside Chita, Timofey knew the village wasn’t enough for him.
When Timofey at last understood that his father was desperately ill, and that he was expected to not only take over the business but be responsible for the rest of his life—in Chita—for his younger brother, a huge, dark cloud descended on him.
Timofey did not want to be held back. He began to think further than Irkutsk, of the world outside Siberia, perhaps in one of the capital cities of Russia. If he was forced to follow the map his father had drawn for him, he felt his life would stall before it had even started.
But Aleksandr heard Tima’s rebellious words as simply the posturing of a headstrong young man. He felt that he had set him up for life. Nikolai—little Kolya—was his concern.
And Aleksandr, tasting the metallic tang of his own blood in his throat, sent out all the prayers he could, begging for a sign as to what to do about his younger son. Shouldn’t something be made of the boy’s musical ability? Shouldn’t there be a better life for him than sitting in a village, creating astoundingly beautiful music on his violin?
He told Ula of his deep concern, but she refused to believe that her husband would soon die. And even if he did, well, she imagined she would be around for many, many years to look after her younger son and make his life as happy as possible. She knew little about the world beyond Chita, and had no interest in it. Nevertheless, when Aleksandr asked her to pray, she obligingly took out her prayer wheels and visited the datsan twice daily, lighting incense and chanting to the small replicas of stupas, tying strips of blue cloth—prayer flags—to the good luck trees that framed the Buddhist temple.
Then something happened which made Aleksandr believe that the combination of Orthodox and Buddhist prayers had brought the longed-for sign.
It was announced, in May 1842, that for the first time in Chita there would be a recital put on by a small group of musicians from Irkutsk. They would play in the tiny town hall for four evenings. Aleksandr sent his wife and sons to the first concert. When they returned, Kolya’s eyes were shining; he told his father that it was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. He was only eight, and yet he spoke with adult passion.
And then Kolya took out his violin and played some of the melodies of the repertoire he had just heard, his eyes closed. He moved as though possessed by a spirit, his body swaying as he passed the bow over the strings, and Aleksandr was both overwhelmed by the depth of his son’s abilities and frightened at the prospect of what would become of him in a place like Chita.
When Ula and his sons had gone to bed, Aleksandr wrote a letter. The next morning he gave it to Timofey to deliver to the maestro of the orchestra. It was an invitation for the maestro to come to their home for dinner. Aleksandr had written that he, Senior Officer Colonel Aleksandr Danilovich Kasakov, knew how far and long the maestro and his orchestra had travelled from Irkutsk, and now wanted to offer him his best Russian hospitality in a village so primitive and uncultured.
While Aleksandr knew that the maestro would be fully aware that a former member of the Russian army in Irkutsk had to be a political exile, he hoped he wouldn’t hold it against him. Fortunately for him, the maestro was down on his luck; he had incurred debts and couldn’t find enough steady work in Irkutsk to pay them off. He had been forced to travel for months throughout eastern Siberia, playing in towns and villages. He hated the uncomfortable travel, the musically ignorant audiences and the poor wages he was paid for his talent. He was flattered to be invited to the home of a Russian former colonel. He didn’t care what the man—this polkovnik—had done in a former life; all he knew was that he would welcome a good meal and a brief respite from the drafty rooms over the miserable hall where he and his musicians were billeted.
He wrote back that he would be happy to come the following evening, and gav
e the note to the young man who stood waiting for an answer.
When the maestro arrived the next night, Aleksandr rose carefully to greet his guest. He didn’t want to set off a bout of coughing. He was pleased at the maestro’s comments on the pleasantness of his home and the appetizing smells of the meal his wife was preparing. Aleksandr introduced himself—please, call me Sasha, implying an immediate friendship with the maestro—and his wife and sons.
Ula was an excellent cook, and the rich, tasty food, combined with an endless supply of the finest vodka Chita could offer, kept the conversation lively. After Ula had cleared the table, Aleksandr instructed little Kolya to perform.
“What shall I play, Papa?” the boy asked as he readied his violin.
“One of your own compositions, Kolya,” Aleksandr instructed him, glancing at the maestro. He watched the man’s face as his son played. When the child finished, the maestro slowly nodded. Aleksandr sent Kolya to the bedroom to put away his violin, and told Tima he could leave to meet his friends. Then he asked his wife to go to the kitchen to prepare the samovar and bring tea and cakes.
“Well?” Aleksandr said. “What do you think?”
The maestro nodded again, studying Aleksandr’s pallor, the skin stretched tight over his gaunt face. He saw how the man tried to stifle the deep, wet cough in his handkerchief, and knew that the consumption would claim him before the month was out. “He has a considerable talent.”
“I propose a situation to you,” Aleksandr said, and the maestro nodded a third time. He understood there was a situation. “I wish my boy to have the best life he can. There is little possibility for one of his talent here in Chita. I know he is only a child—he is just past eight—but is it not better to start with professional training when young?”
“You wish to send your son to Irkutsk with me?” the maestro asked, not wanting to waste time when he knew the eventual question.
“I wish him to be able to make the most of his talent,” Aleksandr said. It was growing harder to control the coughing, and he had already gone through three handkerchiefs, immediately folding them in his lap so the maestro wouldn’t see the blood. “He wants nothing more than to play, and his disposition is such that it’s clear this is what he is meant to do. You would find him an attentive and obedient student. If you could tutor him, perhaps … I really don’t expect that he would ever reach Moscow or St. Petersburg, but surely he could find an appreciative audience—and a life—in Irkutsk. As you have.”
The maestro gave him a glance then that was hard to decipher. Aleksandr pressed on.
“Should he remain in Chita, he will spend his life playing alone in his home, or for the occasional peasant wedding. I want more than this for him.” His face contorted, and he coughed so hard into his handkerchief that it sounded like retching.
The maestro brought out his own handkerchief, shielding his nose and mouth. Ula hurried from the kitchen and stood over her husband, her fist pressed against her own mouth as if she too were fighting not to cough. She patted his shoulder with her other hand, murmuring Sasha, Sasha.
The coughing fit subsided and Ula again retreated to the kitchen.
The maestro said, “I understand. But the child is very young, and we must be honest and clear here. To take him from his mother … how will he cope? Even to travel with us to Irkutsk—you believe your son can do this?”
The maestro, however, was already envisioning the money he could make with a child of this ability. Within a few short years, the boy could be sold for the highest price to a landowner in the western Russian provinces, as a violinist for his serf orchestra. They were always competing with each other, these wealthy aristocrats who had nothing better to do than entertain themselves and their guests.
Aleksandr hadn’t responded to the questions.
“I leave in two days,” the maestro said then, slowly. “Could the boy be ready to go by then?”
Aleksandr’s face shone with perspiration. He couldn’t envision Kolya away from his mother and his home, in the care of this stranger. “He will be ready,” he said, fighting his instinct. “And I know he’ll manage the travel. He’s a resilient boy.” It was an outright lie to call Kolya resilient, but he was desperate enough to do this for his son.
Ula came in, carrying the samovar. As she set it in the middle of the table and turned to go back to the kitchen to fetch the cakes, the maestro asked her, “What did you say the boy’s name is?”
“Timofey Aleksandrovitch,” she answered. “He’s past fifteen now. And you can see he’s already a man.”
“No, the other one.”
“Oh. My little one is Nikolai Aleksandrovitch, moy malishka. Kolya,” she answered, smiling proudly.
Aleksandr closed his eyes, unable to bear what he was about to do to her. To Kolya. To all of them.
It’s for the best, he told himself, reaching for the bottle of vodka, unaware that flecks of blood dotted his chin.
After the maestro left, he tried to think of a way to tell Ula about his plan for Kolya, to prepare her and make her understand that he was doing it for their child’s future. That she would be able to visit him in Irkustsk: Timofey would make the journey with her at least every summer.
When she came out of the bedroom in the middle of the night to where Aleksandr now slept, propped on the cushioned bench, so as not to cough into her face, he was sitting upright. In the light of the candle she carried he saw concern on her face, but the flame also accentuated the hollows under her eyes and the lines around her mouth. She was suddenly older.
“You’re not coughing, Sasha,” she said. “Why can’t you sleep?”
He looked up at her, her long black braid, now threaded with white, hanging over one shoulder.
“You’re crying,” she said, kneeling beside the bench. “I have never … What is it?”
He couldn’t speak.
“I’ll make some tea,” she said, rising, but he caught her wrist. He took a deep breath and passed his other hand over his eyes, wiping his cheeks.
“It’s the future, Ula,” he said. “I’m worried about what will happen to you and the boys when I’m gone.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ula said, pulling her wrist free.
“We must talk about it. You know it will come. Soon,” he added, and Ula clenched her lips and closed her eyes. “You can’t pretend it isn’t happening,” he said, and at that she also wept, kneeling to lay her head on his knees.
“I have a plan,” he told her, and she raised her face to study his. “For Kolya.” But he couldn’t go on. He knew what it would mean to her to lose Kolya. It would be like a death right before his own. What was he thinking? How could he have imagined it to be a good idea? No. He would write another letter to the maestro, telling him he’d changed his mind, and send it with Tima tomorrow. He had been impetuous, and foolish.
“It’s Kolya I’m most worried about,” he finished.
Ula nodded. “I know. Tima will be successful with the business. Already I can see this. He works like two men, and is smart with figures. So Kolya can work with him.”
They both knew the last part wasn’t true.
“Don’t you want more for him?”
At this, Ula’s face grew more composed. “It was good enough for my father, and for you. Why shouldn’t it be good enough for the boys? It’s honest work.”
Aleksandr saw that she was pretending not to understand the question. His throat constricted and he fought the first cough, which would lead to prolonged, harsh and harsher coughing, and the eventual hemorrhage. But he was powerless to stop it. As he coughed, bending over, a handkerchief pressed to his mouth to absorb the flood of crimson, Ula hurried to make tea. No more was said about Kolya’s future.
The next morning—a calm spring day, the sky cloudless—the maestro stood in the doorway of Aleksandr’s home.
Tima was working at the cooperage and Kolya was in the boys’ bedroom playing his violin. Aleksandr lay on the padded bench. Ula
had taken her basket and gone to the shops. Before she left, Aleksandr had her set out pen and paper and ink. When he had a bit more strength, he would write the letter and have Tima deliver it later in the day.
The sight of the maestro standing in the open doorway sent a chill through Aleksandr’s heated body. His throat was raw from coughing, his whole body feverish and aching. He could barely pull himself to a sitting position, but he did, shakily smoothing back his hair with one pale hand.
Behind the maestro were the other musicians in an open tarantass pulled by three horses.
“Good day, Kasakov,” the maestro said. “I know I’m a day early, but last night the audience was so small and unreceptive—so unappreciative—that I’ve decided it’s not worth our time to play the final concert. Can you make your son ready now?”
Aleksandr didn’t answer, licking his lips. The music in the bedroom stopped.
“Come, now. We had an agreement,” the maestro said, still in the doorway. “I’m leaving Chita immediately, and we need to arrive in the next village before dark.”
Still Aleksandr didn’t speak. As the maestro came into the room to stand in front of him, Kolya stepped out of the bedroom, his violin in one hand and the bow in the other. He was barefoot in the warm weather, and wore a clean white tunic and a pair of dark trousers. Aleksandr noticed—was it for the first time?—the delicacy of his son’s ankles.
Nikolai looked at the maestro and his lips parted in his sweet smile. “Hello, maestro,” he said.
Aleksandr’s chest constricted painfully, and in that moment he knew he had to go through with what he had originally planned—quickly, before he changed his mind again. “Kolya,” he said, “I want you to put on your boots. Then gather your clothes—all of them—and put them in a flour sack. Take one from the kitchen. Also put your violin in its case.”
The boy nodded, going to the kitchen and then back through the sitting room and into his bedroom, the empty sack under one arm. Aleksandr knew his son wouldn’t question him. He always did what he was told without reservation or hesitation.
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 28