by Tom Bradby
Dmitri’s German wife, Ingrid, was at his shoulder. She was coldly beautiful, long blond hair framing a neatly formed, perfectly made-up face. She had a petite nose and a small mouth, her personality so naturally shy and reserved that Ruzsky had rarely been able to penetrate much beneath the surface. But her kiss tonight was warm and her eyes sparkled as he stepped away from her. Was it, he wondered, just the natural empathy of betrayed spouses?
Dmitri stepped down from the box, his face flushed. “Sandro,” he said, glowing with pleasure. Vasilyev was behind him, followed by Irina.
“I believe you know one another,” Ruzsky’s father said stiffly, gesturing toward the chief of the Okhrana.
“Yes,” Ruzsky said, stunned by the man’s sudden presence in the bosom of his family. “Yes,” he said again, “I believe we do.”
Irina was staring at him as Dmitri stepped forward and hugged him so tight his ribs almost cracked. “The prodigal returns,” he said, turning toward the silent company. “Come on,” he said. “This ridiculous feud cannot go on forever.”
Dmitri’s tone was laced with jollity, but it carried an unmistakably serious plea. He stood next to his brother, an arm around his shoulder, the two of them facing the assembled company.
Ruzsky found it impossible to avoid Vasilyev’s hooded gaze.
Irina’s face was flushed red, her eyes barely concealing her anger at his presence. Perhaps the Grand Duke was close by.
“Sandro must join us,” Dmitri exclaimed. “A benchmark performance.” As Ruzsky saw the hurt in Ingrid’s eyes, he realized how drunk his brother was.
They remained silent. Vasilyev continued to stare at him with intense, unblinking eyes. Ruzsky tried to summon enough energy to retreat with grace, but found himself catching his father’s eye. Just for a moment, beneath the severe frown, he thought he saw his expression soften. “Sandro must join us,” he said. “Of course.”
Dmitri stepped away from him and lit a cigarette, looking suddenly sober.
Ruzsky cleared his throat. “No.” He saw relief in Irina’s eyes, regret in Ingrid’s. “No, it’s a kind offer. Another time, perhaps.”
“You’re here anyway,” his father said.
“Yes, but I’m… on duty, in a manner of speaking.”
His father glanced at Vasilyev.
“One must take time to relax, Sandro,” Vasilyev said, but his unyielding glare belied the soothing tone of his words.
“Of course.” He looked at his father, whose face had not quite returned to the hostile set of previous encounters. “Have a good evening.”
Ruzsky did not look back as he climbed the stairs. He slumped down into his seat at the far end of the front row with some relief, and gazed down at the empty stage. He was very high up here and it was pleasantly warm.
He only became aware that the performance was about to resume when he realized that the seats around him were once again full. The orchestra was warming up discordantly.
Ruzsky glanced down at the royal box. He could see the Tsar’s brother Grand Duke Michael in earnest conversation with Teliakovsky, the director of Imperial Theatres, and Count Fredericks, minister of the court.
The lights faded, the lavishly embroidered stage curtain was raised, and the overture began.
Maria appeared, in pure white against a startling blue backdrop, and her presence was as intoxicating as it had been when he had first watched her here, all those years ago. A young girl next to him craned her neck for a better view, her face alive with excitement.
Ruzsky forced himself to relax, sitting in the semidarkness, far above the stage.
She was tall for a ballerina. Her long, willowy body moved with such supple grace that nothing she did, no step she took, no pirouette or twist, ever seemed less than perfect. He watched her in a daze, oblivious to the music, or the onlookers, or even the careful choreography of the dance itself. He allowed himself to wallow in the sensation of being close to her.
But, as he watched, he was suddenly gripped by doubt. Only a fool would wait three years for a man who had let an unfaithful wife stand in the way of their fragile chance of happiness.
Ruzsky tried to stem the growing tide of dismay and self-reproach, but without success. He stood and pushed his way along the row, to a chorus of disapproval from those around him.
Outside, as he turned the corner of the stairs, he almost knocked Ingrid over. He grabbed hold of her to steady both of them and as he looked into her eyes, Ruzsky saw the depth of her hurt.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He stepped back. “No…”
They both stared at the floor. Ruzsky wondered what his brother had done or said on this occasion.
“You are…” He could not think of what to say. It was obvious that she was too upset to join her husband below.
“You’re leaving?” she asked.
“Yes.” He could see that her assumption was he’d been upset by the exchange with his father. “I have work to do,” he went on. He moved past her on the stairs.
Ruzsky wondered if he should offer words of comfort, but a natural sense of decorum restrained him. Whatever the cause of her unhappiness, she was his brother’s wife. “Have a good evening,” he said.
“Yes.”
Ruzsky walked down the stairs. At the corner, he looked over his shoulder and saw that she was still watching him. He raised his hand briefly-intended only as a gesture of support-and then was gone.
18
R uzsky waited next to the canal that ran along the rear of the theater. It had started snowing again. The visibility was poor in the glow of the widely spaced gas lamps, but it was warmer tonight.
The last of the audience was making its way out of the Mariinskiy, some heading for sleds or carriages, some on foot. There was the occasional burst of laughter as they went, but then the street grew quiet.
The stage door opened and a familiar figure appeared. The chief of the Petrograd Okhrana adjusted his fur hat and hesitated briefly before moving into the darkness.
Ruzsky ducked into the shadows until the rhythmic crunch of Vasilyev’s departing footsteps could no longer be heard.
Ruzsky wondered what his family was doing. He walked over the bridge, hands in his pockets.
He leaned against the railing and looked down at the icy canal.
It was a few moments before Ruzsky realized that she had left the theater and was heading away from him. Light flakes of snow gathered in her hair.
He almost called out, but thought better of it and took off in pursuit.
He touched her arm when he caught up with her, and she spun around. “Sandro!” Relief flooded her face.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. You gave me a fright.”
“Who did you think I was?”
The stage door banged shut and two men hurried toward them. Ruzsky recognized one as the ballet master with whom he’d crossed swords the previous day. “You’ll catch your death of cold,” he told her, in French.
“Ça ne fait rien,” she responded.
“C’est qui?”
“Un ami.”
The man took a pace closer and eyed Ruzsky. “We have something to eat and some vodka at home.” He pointed down the canal, in the opposite direction. “Just there, number 109.”
“Je suis fatiguée,” Maria said.
Ruzsky recognized the man now as the legendary Fokine.
“You’re going home?” he asked Maria.
“Yes.”
Fokine smiled. “Well, be good.”
He turned around and, with his companion, walked briskly away. Ruzsky felt his face reddening.
They turned and began to walk in the direction of the St. Nicholas Cathedral. “What did you think?”
“Of Fokine?”
“Of tonight.”
“Oh, it was good.”
“Good?” She laughed, kicking fresh powder up around her. Her mood was suddenly much lighter. “Good, Sandro?”
“All right
, very good.”
“Very good?” She had walked a few paces ahead and faced him now, laughing. She scooped the snow up into his face. “Very good?”
“Astounding.”
“Astounding?”
“You’re Russia ’s finest prima ballerina, what can I say?”
“One of Russia ’s finest.”
“Such modesty…”
“You were bowled over by the scale and ambition of the choreography, or the physical perfection of the dancers. You-”
“All of the above.”
“I wager you don’t even like the ballet.”
“On the contrary.”
“Don’t you mean au contraire?”
“What’s so funny?”
“I bet you were asleep.”
He grinned. “If only I had been.”
“It was that boring?”
“Tedious beyond words.”
They were beside the cathedral now, its golden domes towering above them.
“My father used to take me to the ballet,” Ruzsky said quietly.
“Now there is a story.”
“Mmm…”
Maria looked into his eyes. The snow fluttered slowly down between them, big flakes melting as they touched her cheeks. His feet were cold, but he had no wish to hurry.
He turned his face toward the sky.
Maria began to walk again, half turning to examine her footprints in the snow. “You went with your father, alone? Just you and him?”
“Yes.”
“What about your brothers?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he thought they were too young.”
They crossed another bend in the Griboedov Canal and walked past the covered market. Ruzsky glimpsed figures huddled inside its entrance, seeking shelter. “Poor devils,” Maria whispered.
Ruzsky took a few more paces. “Do you know Vasilyev?”
“Of course. Of him, anyway.”
“You don’t know him personally?”
She frowned. “No. Should I?”
“I just saw him leaving the theater by the stage door. I wondered if you had known him from Yalta?”
“He’s an admirer of a colleague,” she said. “Poor girl.”
Maria’s apartment was on the top floor of a faded yellow building just beyond the Nicholas market. It was not far from where she had lived four years ago.
Maria did not ask him to come up, but nor did she turn to say goodbye at its entrance.
They climbed the stairs slowly. Ruzsky watched as she found her key and placed it in the lock. He had to resist the temptation to reach forward and brush the snow from her hair.
They stepped inside. Maria turned on a lamp by the door.
Ruzsky’s throat was dry.
She led him down a narrow corridor to the drawing room, their leather boots noisy on the wooden floorboards. He could hear the water squelching from the holes in his own.
Maria lit a candle above her writing desk, slipped off her coat, and threw it across the end of a chaise longue.
She wore a white dress, and he caught a glimpse of stocking above her boots. On the wall beside her was a painting of the bay at Yalta, at sunset.
“Are you still planning to go home?” Ruzsky asked, glancing at the picture.
“Tomorrow night.”
“It will be warmer.”
Maria shrugged.
“It was a wonderful place for a holiday,” Ruzsky said.
“Then come again. I’ll show you around.”
Ruzsky looked at her. “One day, I’d like that.”
“One day, I would too.”
“It’s a long way. Perhaps more than two days with the railways in the state they are.”
She did not answer.
Ruzsky cleared his throat. “How did you get a ticket? They say the khvost at the railway bureau is five-deep.”
“I have a friend at the Ministry of War.”
Ruzsky could not stop himself wondering what kind of friend.
“Would you like some vodka?” she asked.
“No. Thank you, no.”
“Whiskey? I have some bourbon in the dresser.”
Ruzsky shook his head, then changed his mind. “I’d love one.”
Maria shook out her long dark hair. It was a simple gesture that still had a devastating effect on him. She gathered it again at the nape of her neck as she went to the dresser and picked up the single glass and what was left of the bottle of American whiskey.
Ruzsky knew few people who drank bourbon. It was Dmitri’s favorite, but hard to come by these days, he imagined, even in Petersburg.
Maria handed him the glass. “I’ll make us some tea also.”
“I should go,” he said.
“If you wish…”
He didn’t move. They looked at each other for a few moments before she walked down to the kitchen.
Ruzsky sat on the chaise longue between the bookcase and the fireplace, his heart racing again. He looked about him. On the wall opposite was a framed poster, in dark red, advertising her first performance as a prima ballerina at the Mariinskiy Theatre, in Swan Lake. The year was 1911.
Ruzsky stood again, walked to the window, and looked down at the street below. It was deserted but for a sled standing by the iron railings, its driver hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm.
Ruzsky turned. The fire had been laid and he reached into his pocket for some matches and stepped forward to light it. It caught quickly and he sat back on the rug, watching the flames. He didn’t hear her return.
“I’ve been hoarding fuel,” she said. “They say the bakeries don’t have enough to keep their ovens working.”
Maria put down a silver tray and unloaded its contents: a silver teapot, milk jug, and sugar pot, and two china cups and saucers. Ruzsky watched her pour the tea through a strainer.
Maria returned to the kitchen once more and brought back a plate of English biscuits. He took one, then sipped his bourbon.
“How do you survive, Sandro?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said your father had cut you off without a ruble, and I don’t get the impression much has changed.”
“I have my salary.”
Maria raised her eyebrows. “You’re a Ruzsky.”
“So I survive. Like others do.”
“By not eating. You look thinner. It doesn’t suit you.”
He ignored her. Maria looked at him seriously. “You should leave Petersburg.”
“I’ve done that. Tobolsk was not an improvement.”
“I’m serious. You may see yourself as the guardian of justice, but for all that, you are a policeman.”
“I’m a detective.”
“You expect the mob to care?”
Ruzsky remembered what Dmitri had said, and the hostile faces outside the bakery. He leaned back against the chaise longue. She was looking at him, as if in a trance, her mind somewhere else. “You know what really saddens me?” he said. “The way everyone assumes change is going to make things better.”
“You have changed your tune.”
“You were the radical,” he said.
“Well, everyone is a radical now.”
Ruzsky stared into the fire.
“So, what of the two bodies you found on the ice? The girls were asking.”
Ruzsky looked at her. He liked the idea that they had been talking about him. He wondered if it was true that Maria had kept a photograph of him with her during his exile.
“Still a mystery,” he said.
“I like mysteries.”
“We could swap.”
“Sandro the ballet dancer? I’m not sure.”
“I’d be perfect. Apart from the boots.” He raised one foot. “No. Perhaps you’re right.” Ruzsky took another sip of the bourbon. His natural instinct was not to talk about the case, but he did not want to repeat the mistake he had made with Irina. If need be, he would force himself to communicate. “The girl was from Yalta, as a matte
r of fact. Ella Kovyil. Ever heard of her?”
She smiled and shook her head. “ Yalta is small, but not that small…”
“No, well-”
“What was she doing here?”
“Ella was an imperial nanny.”
Maria tilted her head in surprise. “An imperial nanny?”
“Yes.”
“Why was she killed?”
“We don’t know.”
“A lovers’ quarrel?”
Ruzsky shrugged.
“Who was the other one?”
Ruzsky hesitated. “An American.”
“What was he doing in Petersburg?”
“We don’t know.”
“So you don’t know much, really.”
Maria glanced at the clock and the smile instantly left her face. She hesitated for a moment and then stood. It dawned on him that he was expected to leave. He felt suddenly disoriented.
He stood opposite her, staring into her big, dark eyes. “I’m sorry, Sandro,” she said softly. “It’s just… I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
But her eyes told him everything he needed to know. Her loneliness was the mirror of his own, and her apology was for the opportunity they had lost.
Ruzsky turned and walked slowly out into the corridor.
“Sandro?” She was at the door. “Thank you, for coming tonight.”
They looked at each other for a moment more and then Maria closed the door.
Ruzsky stood, rooted to the spot.
He forced himself to turn and walk down the stairs.
Ruzsky took a few paces down the street outside, then stopped. He looked up and saw her face in the window.
He set his head down and began to move away. It was a moment before he recognized the figure hurrying down the snowy street toward him, his face flushed with alcohol and expectation.
Ruzsky could hear his brother’s voice in his head: Actually, I’ve acquired another little asset.
He turned on his heel and slipped into the shadow of a doorwell.