“No. But it’s wrong. It’s wrong in the eyes of God. We have to tell the authorities in Pskov. It was an accident. You see that. Lilya didn’t mean to do it.” He glances at the body again. “I’ll say I did it. I was hunting, and shot him by mistake. I’ll say I did it, Grisha. It’s my fault for leaving the rifle loaded. I’ll take the blame.”
Grisha looks at the young man, seeing what he is willing to do out of love for his sister. He has never known this kind of devotion. He didn’t have it for his brother; he betrayed him for his own gain. As he betrayed Mikhail—and ultimately Antonina—for his own gain. Lyosha is a far better man than he will ever be.
“Wouldn’t you do the same?” Lyosha asks, and Grisha turns away. He goes to the cart and lifts Valentin’s body, carefully. With only a slight effort, he places him, gently, onto the cold ground beside the grave. He unwraps the shroud and kneels over Valentin, kissing his forehead and then making the sign of the cross on it.
As he gazes down at the man’s face, he has a flash of understanding. His father wanted to give his younger son a chance at life that he never would have had if he remained in Chita. If he could have seen Kolya—Valentin—as a handsome and self-possessed young man, a powerful musician who brought joy to so many, he would have been proud. “I forgive you, Papa,” Grisha says, crossing himself. “You were right,” he adds in a whisper.
If he could only forgive himself; if only he had done something to make his father proud.
Grisha rearranges the shroud and, with Lyosha’s help, lowers the body into the hole. He picks up a handful of dark soil and slowly crumbles it over Valentin’s body, praying for him. Lyosha joins him, and then the two men begin shovelling.
There is snow through the night, and by morning the new grave is no more than another piece of lumpy ground in the neglected cemetery.
Just before dawn, while Grisha and Lyosha, alone and sleepless, wait for the night to pass, and Angelkov is still quiet, Lilya goes to Antonina’s bedroom. She builds a fire and then awakens Antonina. She sits on her bed, holding Antonina’s hand, and calmly talks to her.
“Yesterday, Tosya,” she tells her, “Kropotkin died. He was killed by bandits on the road close to here. He must have been coming to see you. He was shot and robbed and left dead by the side of the road. The village is talking about it. He was taken back to Pskov and his body will be buried somewhere there. I found out in the evening, yesterday, but didn’t want to tell you just then. I thought it best if you slept first.”
Antonina pulls her hand from Lilya’s. “What are you saying, Lilya? Surely you’re wrong. Surely—”
“No. He’s dead. It happened yesterday, at dusk. He was trying to come to you again, as he did the other night. The musician is dead because he loved you, Tosya.”
Antonina’s face is the colour of putty. She remembers the distant shot she heard, thinking it was Lyosha still hunting. She is trembling. “A drink, Lilya. I need a drink.”
Lilya goes to the wardrobe and pulls out the bottle of vodka. She pours Antonina half a tumbler. “Here you go, moya dorogaya, my darling. Yes, you need something to help you. I understand what a shocking, unbelievable thing this is. But you know how violent some of the peasants are now. You, of all people, know what they’re capable of. I wouldn’t be surprised if Grisha had something to do with it.”
Antonina stares at her, the vodka in her mouth. She has trouble swallowing. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve never seen Grisha’s temper, but I have,” Lilya says.
“Why would Grisha harm Valentin?”
Lilya sits on the bed again, smoothing Antonina’s hair. “Out of jealousy, simple jealousy, Tosya.” Her voice is low, soothing. “We all understand what it can do to a person.”
“Jealousy,” Antonina murmurs. She thinks of how she had spoken to Grisha about Valentin in his house the day before. How odd—almost ill—he’d looked. She puts the glass on the bedside table. She’d rambled on and on. Does Grisha really feel so much for her? Did she do this, then? Make Grisha angry enough to …
She covers her face with her hands. Lilya is right. It’s her fault this happened to Valentin. I don’t know why he was coming back to me … we’d said goodbye. But it doesn’t matter. He was coming to me.
“Oh, merciful God,” she says. I’m responsible for Valentin’s death. “Go away, Lilya,” she says, but Lilya stays beside her, then puts her arms around her.
“No. You need me with you, Tosya. You need me.” She covers Antonina’s cheek with kisses. “I will stay with you and comfort you.”
Antonina surrenders momentarily to Lilya’s embraces. But there’s something ghoulish on Lilya’s face, something that Antonina finds appalling. It’s as if the other woman is excited by this. Abruptly, Antonina pulls away. “I told you I want to be alone. Go away.” Her voice is firm.
Lilya stands. “I’ll bring you up some breakfast. We can eat together.”
Antonina rises, her hands clenched. “Lilya, do you not understand me?” she shouts. “Leave me alone.”
“I understand. You don’t want your breakfast—it’s the shock,” Lilya says. “You’ll be ready to eat later.”
When Lilya leaves, Antonina falls to her knees in her prayer corner. She knows. It’s her. She’s the poison at Angelkov. Everything has happened because of her.
I am immoral and evil. I loved my son more than life itself, and he was taken from me because my husband didn’t wish our child to be around me as I was. I am responsible for the death of my husband, because the night he fell ill, I was in bed with Grisha. Valentin died because I befriended him. And Grisha … If what Lilya suggests really happened, then he will die at the hands of the authorities for his act of murder, and I will also be to blame for his death.
Antonina presses her forehead onto her clasped hands. “My God, You have seen my wickedness. I bring destruction to all those who come near me. This is the reason You keep my son from me. This is my punishment.”
Her mouth is dry. She stumbles across the room, grabbing the bottle of vodka and drinking from it. Then she hurls it into the fire. It smashes, the flames roaring up in bright, consuming colour.
She is breathing heavily. She needs to keep praying for penance, and she needs to stop the evilness that is in her. The longer she stays at Angelkov, the more destruction she will bring.
She needs to be alone, and away from temptation.
Twenty minutes later, Lilya comes back, bringing a tray.
“I know you said you didn’t want anything, but you’ll feel better if you—” Lilya looks at the clothes scattered on Antonina’s bed. A valise sits on the floor. “What are you doing, Tosya?”
“I’m going away,” Antonina says, pulling a chemise from a drawer.
“Away? What do you mean?”
“Have Lyosha saddle Dunia, and an Arabian for himself.”
“I asked you where you’re going.” Lilya looks at the clothing on the bed. Antonina has chosen oddly: it’s as if she’s taken whatever her hand first touched in the wardrobe. A shawl, a nightdress. A summer bonnet. What is she doing? “Do you not want some dresses? And some slippers? You haven’t taken—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Antonina interrupts. She sits at her dressing table, looking into the mirror, but to Lilya it doesn’t appear that she sees her own reflection.
Lilya sets down the tray and sits on the purple velvet chair beside Antonina’s. “Tosya,” Lilya says, grasping Antonina’s hand. “Ninochka.” She kisses the back of the hand, and then turns it over and kisses the palm. Her lips are warm, damp.
Antonina shivers.
“I know you are grieving for Mr. Kropotkin,” Lilya says. “I wish I could take away your grief. But there’s no reason for you to leave. You’ll feel better when you eat, and—”
Antonina stands. “Bring my valise downstairs.”
When Antonina and Lyosha arrive at the dacha, there is a light layer of snow on the wooden steps.
Lyosha carries i
n her valise and the basket of food the countess asked Raisa to pack, then starts a fire with the bit of wood still left by the fireplace. He goes out to split more from the pile of logs behind the dacha, and carries in two armloads, leaving another tall pile on the step. He makes sure there is a full box of kindling near the fireplace.
Watching him, Antonina thinks that Lyosha doesn’t look like his sister at all. His face is open and honest, whereas Lilya’s has grown hard, everything becoming narrower: her eyes, her lips, her pinched nostrils.
“Are you certain you’ll be all right out here by yourself? Do you know how to keep the fire—”
“Thank you, Lyosha. You may go back now. And take Dunia—I don’t want to worry about her in the cold stable. But please, remember that I don’t want anyone to know where I am. Do you understand? Anyone.”
From the look on his sister’s face as she stood on the veranda and watched them leave, Lyosha knows Lilya is very angry at the countess’s refusal to tell her where she was going.
Lyosha is exhausted and sick with worry. He can’t stop thinking of what Lilya did the day before, of having to bury the poor man. But this morning Lilya appeared in control, as if nothing had happened. How could she murder that man—the quiet musician—in cold blood, and be so calm today? And what of the talk of Soso and Mikhail Konstantinovich?
“I’m sorry to ask you to do this, Lyosha,” Antonina says. “But it’s very important that you keep this secret. I know I can trust you.”
“Yes, madam,” Lyosha says. “When shall I return for you?”
“I have food for three or four days.”
Lyosha touches his cap and mounts his horse. Antonina watches him ride away, leading Dunia through the narrow forest path.
Antonina looks around the dacha, remembering the last time she was here, with Grisha. She walks down the hallway to the bedroom. The bedclothes are still jumbled; no one has been here since. She lies down, pressing her face into the cold sheet. It smells faintly of leather and her own scent. She pulls the coverlet over her, and as she does, she finds the embroidered vest Grisha had worn when they were here together. She runs her fingers over the embroidery, telling herself that Grisha had nothing to do with Valentin’s death. He did not. It was Lilya, spreading rumour. Not Grisha. She thinks of the many kindnesses she’s witnessed from him over the years: to her son, to Lyosha, to so many of the servants. She knows that he doesn’t punish with the knout, as Gleb had. She has heard this from the servants. They were mindful not to let Konstantin know, but she knows. Even Misha knew. He once talked of how he was glad Grisha wasn’t cruel to the stableboys, as the steward he’d seen when visiting another estate had been.
She remembers the way Grisha took her here. Never losing awareness of her injured nose, he had pressed his mouth on hers softly and yet firmly. Valentin held her as though she were a treasured pet, and his one brief kiss … it was as though she was simply tasting something sweet and pleasing, something that would last only briefly on the tongue, like a summer ice. Grisha’s mouth had substance.
She has convinced herself she will never again know Grisha’s mouth, his touch. But at this moment she wants nothing more than to hear his footsteps on the wooden porch steps. She wants him to throw open the door without knocking, to stride through the dacha and hold her tightly, so she can forget, even for an hour, her grief over Mikhail, the sadness surrounding Valentin, her concern about the future of the estate. About her own future. So she can forget about wanting a drink so badly that without it she feels she can’t take another step, another breath. With Grisha she would be able to forget, and live only in the moments when he took possession of her.
She must abandon her foolish thoughts. She goes back to the warm sitting room. From her valise she takes the letter Misha had written on the back of her notes to Glinka, as well as the two extra pages she found in his coat. She has read them all so often that she is almost afraid to unfold them again; they’re creased and fragile. She thinks of all the tests that have been put in front of her: Konstantin, Grisha, Valentin. The vodka. She has failed them all.
The only thing she hasn’t failed at is being a good mother.
She drops to her knees and, pressing the pages against her chest, prays out loud. “I am confessing to you, Heavenly Father. I have many sins, and I understand that You feel I do not deserve another chance. But I vow to You that I will try. I will try again. Perhaps You believe I don’t deserve to have my son back. I was an unworthy wife. I am an unworthy woman. I accept your punishment of me for those things. But I am not an unworthy mother.”
She sits back on her heels. She is thirsty, her hands shaking more all the time, her stomach cramping as if her time is arriving. She goes to the kitchen and empties the basket of food. There is a length of sausage, a loaf of bread, a jar of pickled cabbage and one of marinated apples, boiled potatoes still in their skins, hard-boiled eggs and bottles of buttermilk. She opens a bottle and puts it to her mouth. She drinks, grimacing at its thick taste. It makes her nauseous.
It is only noon.
Valentin has been dead for less than twenty-four hours.
Grisha had gone to the grave again that morning. He knelt and prayed for his brother. He feels such unrest, as if he should be doing something more.
He doesn’t know which he feels more strongly: sorrow, or guilt, or anger.
He rides to the Bakanev estate to receive the agreed-upon price for the land he has sold back to the prince. The prince was annoyed at the transaction, giving Grisha only half of what he paid, but Grisha has no choice. His security is now gone, traded for Mikhail’s freedom.
He returns in late afternoon, and goes to the manor’s back door. It’s locked, for the first time. When he knocks, Lilya answers, positioning herself in the entrance.
He asks her about the countess.
“She’s fine,” Lilya tells him.
“I’d like to see her. To see for myself that she’s fine. I wonder what you’ve told her. I don’t trust you.” Grisha pushes past Lilya into the kitchen. Soon he won’t have to worry about her. She’ll leave Angelkov once Mikhail is returned and she gets her share of the money. “Did you tell her about …” It’s difficult for him to say his brother’s name. “Did you tell her anything? About what happened yesterday?”
Lilya looks around to make sure they’re alone. “You can’t see her. Do you have the extra money yet?”
“Yes.”
“Good. It’s growing colder and I don’t know if Misha will be kept warm.”
“Do you think I’m not as worried about him as you?”
“Were you worried when you helped to have him taken?”
Grisha’s jaw is tight. “It’s already growing late. Tomorrow you’ll take me to Soso, and we’ll get Mikhail Konstantinovich back. Go and tell Antonina I wish to speak with her.” He won’t tell her about what will happen tomorrow, just in case something doesn’t go as planned. But he wants—needs—to see that she’s all right.
Lilya refuses. “She’s still asleep.”
“What do you mean, still? It’s late afternoon.”
“You know how she gets,” Lilya says, and mimics lifting a glass to her lips. “I’m not waking her.”
“Tomorrow morning, then, Lilya. I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll go to Soso.”
Lilya shrugs, turning from him.
By five o’clock Antonina is sick to her stomach, and by early evening she’s moaning, clutching her cramping abdomen, alternating between chills and fever, her body slick with sweat. She has already torn everything apart in the kitchen, looking for the bottle of vodka she had shared with Grisha when she was last here. When she finds it—empty—she screams and hurls it at the stove; it shatters. In despair, she drops to her hands and knees. A piece of the glass from the broken bottle pierces her finger. She picks it out, sucking away the blood, then lies on her side on the cold kitchen floor, wanting to weep but unable to.
Grisha returns to the manor the next morning. Raisa and Pavel
are working in the kitchen. He asks Pavel to fetch Lilya.
“How is she today?” he asks, when Lilya comes into the kitchen.
Lilya ignores his question. “You’ve left the door open. Close it. It’s cold, and look—the snow.” She crosses her arms over her chest, hugging herself and stepping closer to the stove.
Grisha shuts the door firmly. The snow had started in the night, just a dusting at first, but now the wind has picked up. Heavy, wet flakes are coming down so quickly that Grisha’s footsteps are almost covered by the time he reaches the back veranda. It’s only the beginning of November, and yet it appears winter is trying to get its icy grip earlier than usual.
As he turns from the door, he sees, with an unpleasant start, that Lilya is wearing one of Antonina’s gowns.
Raisa is stirring a pot of barley porridge on the stove and Pavel is back at the table, polishing silver: a chafing dish, candlesticks, fish knives.
Grisha recognizes this tea gown: a soft, creamy fabric cut in a fashion that emphasizes the waist. Antonina had been wearing it the last time he saw her, when she came to his house and spoke of Valentin. It had brought out the translucence of her skin. It makes Lilya sallow. The fabric is pulled too tightly, buckling across her hips: Lilya’s body is not shaped like Antonina’s. She also wears Olga’s ring of keys—the housekeeper’s keys—on a thick leather belt, incongruous on the delicate dress. “The countess gives you permission to wear her clothes?”
Lilya looks annoyed. “It’s none of your business what I wear.” There is rouge in careful circles on her cheeks, and a tortoiseshell comb hangs crookedly in her hair.
“I want to see her, as I wanted to see her yesterday.”
“You can’t,” Lilya says.
Grisha still studies Lilya. She’s a little shorter than Antonina, and wears flat boots; Antonina always wears heeled slippers. The hem of the dress drags on the floor; bits of dust and grit are caught on it. The rouge is too livid on her cheeks. “Is she ill?” he asks then. “Is that it? Raisa, is the countess ill, and doesn’t want to see anyone? I’ll fetch the doctor.”
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 40