Raisa opens her mouth, frowning, but Lilya says, “She’s not sick.”
Grisha doesn’t want to imagine that Antonina is drinking so heavily this early in the morning. “Then I will see her whether you like it or not,” he says, and starts across the kitchen.
“No!” Lilya cries, and moves towards the doorway that leads into the house.
Grisha pushes away Lilya’s outstretched arm. He walks through the hall, his wet boots hitting the wooden floors with hard, purposeful thuds.
All the doors on the main floor are shut. He opens each one quickly, methodically, looking for Antonina in the dining room, the morning room, the library, the study, the drawing room, the music salon. Each room is dark, the curtains drawn against drafts from the frosty glass, and no stoves or fires burn anywhere. The air is dry and cold. There isn’t enough firewood in the once-huge stacks outside to heat more than a few rooms at a time. They are surrounded by forest, but there are no longer men to cut and cord the timber.
Old Olga is asleep in a corner of the main vestibule on a straight wooden chair with a heavy blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her chin on her chest. She lifts her head as Grisha’s footsteps wake her, blinking in a confused manner, and watches him start up the stairs. Nusha, the last of the young servants to remain at Angelkov, is on her knees, sweeping the carpet with a small, hard brush. She jumps aside as Grisha takes the stairs two at a time.
Lilya follows him.
He stops outside Antonina’s door. “Madam,” he calls, knocking. “Countess. It’s Grisha. May I enter?”
He turns the crystal knob and pushes open the door. “Madam?” he says in a wary voice. But when he steps over the threshold, the room is like the others, the curtains drawn and the fireplace dead. He turns and faces Lilya.
“Where is she? Tell me where she is,” he says, coming close to Lilya, towering over her.
Lilya doesn’t step back, or flinch. She looks up at him. “The countess is gone, Grisha,” she says calmly. “Gone away,” she repeats.
“What do you mean? Where?”
As Grisha’s face has grown agitated, Lilya’s has become serene, unreadable. “She had Lyosha take her to the city, where she was going to hire a carriage and driver.” She’s furious with Lyosha for his silence. That he would show allegiance to Antonina and not to her has caused a further rift between them. They haven’t spoken since the horrible event in Grisha’s house. She’s thinking quickly but speaking slowly. “She’s gone all the way to St. Petersburg,” she finishes, and is rewarded by Grisha’s pupils dilating, the sudden colour in his face.
“St. Petersburg?” he repeats.
Lilya has the upper hand. She was able to get Valentin out of Antonina’s life, and now she will do the same with Grisha.
“Yes, St. Petersburg. She said there was no reason for her to remain at Angelkov at the moment. There’s nothing here for her, she told me.”
Lilya is enjoying this little game, watching Grisha’s face. Her hours are long and dull without Antonina.
The snow keeps up, falling fast and heavy. The wind grows steadily colder.
Lyosha is thinking of Antonina alone in the dacha, burning up the wood faster than either of them would have thought. By eleven that morning he goes to the stable, having to push through snow midway up his shins. He saddles the Arabian and starts down the road. It’s more logical, in this weather, to hitch the Orlovs to the troika: they’re bred for pulling the sled through snow at a fast pace. The three of them abreast are fine on the main road, but he knows they couldn’t get through the narrow path in the forest that leads to the dacha. He plans to bring Antonina back with him on the horse, if she’ll come. If not, he’ll chop more wood for her. Maybe he’ll even stay with her, to ensure her safety.
The snow is blinding by the time he reaches the turnoff for the dacha. It’s another half-hour ride through the forest. The horse struggles, attempting to lift its legs as high as it can, then shies nervously, whinnying. It refuses to go forward, no matter how Lyosha urges it on. He’s so cold he can’t feel his hands on the reins. His ushanka is pulled over his eyebrows, and a thick scarf is over his nose. But his eyelashes are coated with ice, his eyes burning from the stinging snow.
Finally, he turns the horse. It slowly picks its way back through the trail it had broken. Lyosha can’t see the road. All is white and blinding. Were it not for the horse’s determination and sense of direction they might have wandered into a field and died of exposure. Lyosha has been gone six hours on a journey that should have taken less than two. Darkness is falling as the horse struggles up the long road to the manor.
But the Arabian is too exhausted to break through the rising drifts to the stable. Lyosha squints, trying to see where they are. All he can make out is the looming square of the house, but the smaller outbuildings have disappeared. He slides off the horse and, taking its bridle, bent in half against the wind, trudges to the manor.
He collapses on the front steps, and it takes him a few moments to gain enough strength to crawl up them. On his knees, he pounds on the locked front door. In a moment it’s opened by Lilya and Grisha, with Pavel, Olga, Raisa, Fyodor and Nusha—the only servants left at Angelkov—crowding behind them.
As Lyosha half falls through the doorway, Grisha brings the horse into the wide, high entry hall. The poor creature has icicles hanging from its nostrils and whiskery jaw, its mane so beaded with ice that it’s hard as stone. It shivers violently.
While the women take Lyosha to the kitchen, Fyodor brings blankets, and he and Grisha rub the horse vigorously. Grisha leaves Fyodor to finish the job and goes to the kitchen.
Lyosha lies on the floor near the stove, completely spent. A thick blanket covers him. Lilya is kneeling beside him. His boots and socks are off, and she is briskly rubbing his feet.
When Lyosha hadn’t come into the house for his noon meal, Lilya had gone to the servants’ quarters. She looked for him there, then in the stable. She was still angry with him, but seeing the Arabian’s empty stall frightened her. Where would Lyosha go in this snowstorm? She fought her way down to Grisha’s house and told him that Lyosha was missing. They both had the same thought: after what had happened to the musician, he didn’t want to be at Angelkov anymore. He had decided to say nothing to either of them—who would blame him?—and leave. Lilya wondered if he had gone to the home of Anya Fomovna. But wherever he went, he wouldn’t get far in the storm, they also knew.
Grisha had returned to the manor with Lilya and sat at the kitchen table, staring at his knuckles. The servants prayed in front of the icon over the stove for Lyosha’s safe return.
Now, finally, Lyosha stirs. He struggles to sit up. Lilya hands him a steaming cup. Grisha stands over him. “Tell me what you thought you were doing. You know better than to take a horse out in this weather,” he says sharply, hiding his concern over Lyosha by talking about the horse.
“I was trying to get to her. The countess,” Lyosha says. The end of his nose is frostbitten. “I knew she would need more wood, and—”
Lilya interrupts him. “Where is she?”
Grisha looks from Lyosha to Lilya. “But you said she was in St. Petersburg.”
“She’s in a dacha. About six versts from here,” Lyosha says. “It’s in the woods, off the—”
“I know where it is,” Grisha says. “Why did she go there?”
“I don’t know, Grisha. I took her there as she requested.”
Grisha turns to Lilya. “Why did you lie to me?”
“She didn’t know,” Lyosha says. “I wasn’t to tell anyone. Lilya didn’t know,” he repeats.
Lilya shrugs. “What’s the difference? For all I knew, she had gone to St. Petersburg.”
Grisha shakes his head in annoyance. “So she’s been there … When did you take her, Lyosha?”
“Early yesterday morning, after …” Lyosha stops, the image of the dead musician still too clear. He can’t shake it away, nor the picture of his sister with her bloody han
ds. “I tried to go to her today because I’m afraid she doesn’t have enough wood.”
“How long did she tell you she’d stay?”
“She said to come back for her in three or four days. But how could we know about the storm? And I don’t know if she had fuel for the lamps. I wasn’t comfortable leaving her, Grisha, but she insisted.” He covers his eyes with one hand.
“I’ll go to her,” Grisha says.
“But it’s dark, and impossible for a horse right now,” Lyosha murmurs.
Grisha is all too aware he will have to wait until morning.
In the warm, brightly lit kitchen, with a fragrant soup bubbling on the stove, they are all thinking of Countess Mitlovskiya, alone in the middle of the forest, in the dark, and cold. “There are wolves in the forest,” Nusha says.
The storm blows itself out by midnight, and Grisha sets out as soon as there is a glimmer of dawn. The snow sparkles in the rising sun. It’s a struggle for the horse, and the journey is difficult.
When he arrives, there is no smoke from the chimney, and a myriad of wolf prints around the foundation of the dacha. He clears away the deep snow in front of the door to get it open. When he does, he finds Antonina on the floor in front of the fireplace, empty but for a high pile of ashes. She’s under blankets and a mouldering bearskin he knows was nailed to the wall of the small back veranda. As Lyosha predicted, there is no more wood, and it feels colder inside the dacha than out. He can’t see Antonina’s face, but her breath curls into the air above her.
He quietly shuts the door and goes back outside to chop an armload of logs and split kindling. As he comes in with it, Antonina is sitting up, her hand to her throat. There is dried blood on one of her fingers.
“Grisha, is it really you?” she cries, a sob in her voice. “I heard the axe. I’m cold, Grisha, and I was afraid. The wolves … Grisha, they were howling and scratching.”
She is so pale and drawn that Grisha feels a thump of dread. There are dark smudges under her eyes, and her lips are raw-looking.
“Are the wolves gone?” she asks, and he nods, stepping over her and setting down the wood. Kneeling, he clears the heavy ash from the fireplace and looks back at her.
“Are you all right, Antonina?” Of course she’s not. It’s more than being cold and afraid. It’s something else, something that has taken hold of her.
Her teeth are chattering. “Lyosha told you I was here?”
Grisha nods again, turning away to start the fire. As the kindling catches, he sits back on his heels, watching the flames as they tentatively lap and sizzle around the damp wood. “He tried to come to you yesterday, but couldn’t get through.”
“And so you came,” Antonina states. There is snow, like tiny melting gems, in his dark hair. It sits on his wide shoulders.
“You’re ill, Antonina,” he says, looking back at her. “What is it?” Her lips are torn, as if she’s been fiercely biting them.
How to tell him without humiliating herself? There is no way but the simple truth. “I came here to do penance, Grisha, and to be away from … from … temptation.”
“Temptation?”
“The drink, Grisha. The wine. The vodka.” She tries to lick her lips, but her tongue is so dry. “I can’t … not anymore. I can’t use it to make my life bearable, because it doesn’t. It doesn’t make it more bearable. It only makes it worse. What it did to me … how it made me weak. I told myself it made me strong.”
Suddenly she’s shivering fiercely, bending forward and clutching her abdomen. She lies on her side again, her knees up to her chest, closing her eyes with an almost imperceptible groan.
As the fire grows stronger, Grisha watches her. She seems to have fallen into something like sleep, although she’s twitchy and stiff.
She opens her eyes again, crying out when she sees him. “I forgot … I thought you were a dream. I dreamed you would come and rescue me.”
Grisha has to turn away so that Antonina can’t see how her words affect him. Did his own brother not say this same thing, only days ago, as he lay dying? But Antonina is not dying. Is she? He can still help her, as he couldn’t help his brother.
“Yes. I’m here. I’m here,” he says, looking at her again, picking up one of her hands. It’s icy, although the palm is damp. Her fingers feel boneless. “Are you growing warmer?”
She nods, but her teeth are still chattering.
As he pushes aside the blankets, he sees that the front of her dress is stained where she’s been sick. He also sees his vest; she’s been sleeping holding his vest. This gives him a surge of emotion. He gathers her to him and holds her tightly. She rests her head against his chest as though she were a trusting child.
Then he stands, carrying her to the settee. She is even lighter than he remembers. He lays her down, wrapping a blanket around her. She pushes it aside, fretful, and sits up.
“Lie down, Antonina,” he says. “Try to sleep.”
“I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see terrible things. They’re like nightmares, but I don’t think I’m asleep.”
“They’ll stop.”
“Sometimes my eyes are open and the nightmares come, too. I’m frightened, Grisha,” she says, and again he puts his arms around her. “When will I feel better?”
“Soon,” he says. “I know it will be soon.” He doesn’t know with certainty, but surely the alcohol is gone from her body—this is the third day. Her body is only remembering it, and wanting it. He knows how long his own body wants what it had once, with her. How long the memory holds.
He brushes back her hair. It’s tangled, combs sticking out at all angles.
She reaches up and begins to pull them out. He sits beside her, watching. When the last long strands of her hair fall down her back to her waist, he takes a deep breath. He runs his fingers through it. It is so fine, and yet it has such weight.
He knows what she’s doing: she’s letting him see her in a state of complete weakness. No, perhaps it’s not weakness, but strength. It’s her way of telling him she trusts him. She is giving the last of herself to him, which takes strength.
“I’ll make you some tea.”
As he stands to go to the kitchen, she grabs his hand. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go, Grisha.”
“Only to the kitchen, Antonina.”
She’s trembling again, biting her chapped lips, opening a tiny crack in the bottom one. A bead of blood appears.
Grisha wants to lick it away, and curses himself for such a thought when she is so clearly ill and vulnerable. In the kitchen he sees the untouched food Antonina has brought. He lights the stove and fills the kettle, then comes back to stand in the doorway, looking across the room at her.
“I tried to stay brave by reciting poetry last night,” Antonina says. “Do you know Pushkin’s ‘Winter Evening’?”
He nods.
“Isn’t it odd? As I spoke it aloud, I realized it was about my life. The storm wind covers the sky,” she recites,
“Whirling the fleecy snowdrifts.
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child.
‘Let us drink, dearest friend,
‘To my poor wasted youth.
‘Let us drink from grief—where’s the glass?
‘Our hearts at least will be lightened.’ ”
Antonina makes a faltering attempt at a smile. “Even Pushkin is urging me to drink. A poem about winter and wolves and lost children and drinking. Ha,” she says bitterly. “It’s a difficult thing, is it not? Here I have no choice. The vodka is not here. But when I return to Angelkov … can I do it, Grisha?” The kettle is making slow popping sounds. “It must be for always. It must.”
He looks at her for another minute, then goes to prepare the tea and a plate of bread and slices of sausage.
The tea is steaming in the glass, sweet with chunks of sugar he’s broken off the cone. He gestures at the bread. She looks at it, then picks it up and takes a tiny bite. She chews, but
struggles to swallow, gagging, and then covers her mouth as she empties the half-chewed bread into her hand.
“I’m sorry. I can’t eat yet, Grisha. My stomach … I’ve been so sick.”
“Bread is too hard, and the sausage … Of course not. Drink the tea.”
She manages a few mouthfuls.
“I’ll make you some soup,” he says. “Soup is the best thing for you now.”
“You know how to make soup?”
He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Sleep now, and later, when you wake, there will be hot soup.”
After she has fallen into what appears to be a restless sleep, Grisha uses the sausage and potatoes and cabbage Antonina brought with her to make a thick soup. He looks around the kitchen, knowing the dacha is no longer his. It again belongs to Prince Bakanev; it is on the land Grisha had owned, so briefly. He doesn’t let himself dwell on what he’s lost. He goes out to chop more wood, making sure the fire is burning fiercely, keeping the sitting room warm. Sparks fly up the chimney and the wood crackles. He sits on a chair beside the settee, watching how Antonina’s body twitches. Her face and throat are damp. She frowns and moans and at one point cries out. He takes her hand. “Sleep, Tosya,” he murmurs, wiping her forehead and neck.
It’s late afternoon when she finally sits up. “My head,” she says. “It doesn’t stop throbbing.” Her pupils are slightly dilated.
“It will help if you eat. Can you try some soup?”
She nods, and he holds the bowl while she puts the spoon into it, but her hand is too unsteady. He feeds her four spoonfuls, then she shakes her head.
“It’s a good start. You’ll have more later.” He carries the bowl to the kitchen.
“Grisha?” she calls. “Could you bring me a glass of water?”
When he hands her the glass, she looks at it. “This is what I will drink from now on, Grigori Sergeyevich. I have made a pact with God.”
“Good.”
“Do you believe me? Do you believe in me?”
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 41