Tyotya chuckled and started up the hill. So the dogs had bothered Boris and his friend. A little. A lot. She didn’t know, though she was thankful little Boris hadn’t been hurt. She imagined the dogs circling the two people, bounding around like a game. That was the wolf in them, that stalking instinct. They would have circled their prey, perhaps nipped a bit at the ankles. Sampled the flesh. Then, if provoked, they would have gone in for the kill, Milka on one side of the neck, Toozik on the other. That was the borzoi in them, the part that had been bred in over hundreds of years in an attempt to rid the Russian steppes of its scourge, the wolf. In this way, too, developed the sport of the wolf hunt, two borzois outrunning a single wolf, a dog biting into either side of the neck, then jointly flipping it over and pinning it down until the master came to slit the wolf’s neck. That’s the way Milka and Toozik operated too. Always had, which was why Tÿotya’s hunts were always successful.
Suddenly two pointy fists shoved into her back and she was hurled forward, almost knocked to the ground. It was Milka and Toozik stabbing their long snouts—which almost reached her shoulder blades—into her. Oi, thought Tyotya, where do they get all this energy? From the wild, yes, of course.
“Stop it!”
She swatted at them and they ducked away as if this, too, were a game. Unfazed, the dogs slow-galloped up the hill past her. Their tongues bounced and flapped, as if they were laughing at her, playing with her. Tyotya shook a fist with a knife at them. Bad children these were.
“Onward, home now!”
Her breath heavy, she reached the large wooden fence surrounding the palace and was greeted by an army of clamoring white paws. The fence, which she’d built after the war to hold in the first hounds she’d lured from the woods, creaked and tilted, just like the palace itself. It was a tall structure, taller than she, built that way to keep the hounds from leaping out. And like the palace, if it weren’t soon repaired, it would all come tumbling down.
But the palace of Zarekino would be restored, returned to its glory—a monument to the defense of the hero-city, Leningrad. Any day now, she thought to herself. First the imperial palaces that had belonged to the tsars, then Zarekino. How could the authorities not? It was here that her family—her parents and six brothers and sisters—had been brought by the Fascists to perform their little circus acts. And it was here, after performing one night for the troops and just before their retreat, that the Nazis killed her family. All except her. But she, part of a knife act with her father, had taken her revenge. Eleven officers and seventeen soldiers.
A paw struck the top of the fence and snapped a board.
“Back! Get down!”
Barking and scratching more hounds hurled themselves against the fence. Paws clambered over the top; noses poked skyward. Food. Meat. That’s all they wanted, all they cried for. Their stomachs were empty. She’d kept them that way for days. That would shrink their stomachs, sharpen their noses, their eyes. Already, they had become lean, aggressive. Soon they’d become stalkers of the night and under the lead of Milka and Toozik they would hone their instincts. Da, da, she thought. She’d waited all summer until the dachas were closed and now she’d have to wait a bit longer, until Boris and his mistress left. After that, though, she’d begin her hunting. Combined with what she’d earned from her hounds over the summer, there’d be enough to live on for another year.
At the edge of the fence, she turned then ducked through a remnant of a wall. A dirt path led through piles of shattered stone and up to a small wooden door. Milka and Toozik were already there, pacing back and forth in anticipation.
She pulled the door, passed through the troll-like opening. This was her place, what served as a home carved out of the palace ruins. The first of the two rooms was large, with a low arched ceiling, and Milka and Toozik charged in ahead of her.
“What, are you hungry, my children? No catch out there?”
In complete comprehension, Milka and Toozik chomped at the air and pranced around her.
“Well, all right. A bit tonight, but that’s it.”
She led the dogs into the back room and from a wooden tub sunk in the earth took a chunk of cow’s udder, which she had earned from a sale to a neighboring peasant. She placed it on a stump, grabbed an axe, and in four strokes quartered the white mass.
Tyotya tossed the meat to her two hounds, and said, “Remember, that’s it. You must stay hungry so that once the people at the dacha are gone, you can lead the other hounds. This hunt must be very successful. I want many killed.”
Chapter 30
This had been the longest day of her life. Musya had risen early, watched the late sun slowly make its way skyward. All morning and into early afternoon she had stood at the large windows overlooking the Fontanka and stared at the sun as it passed through the sky. It didn’t matter that this was one of the brightest days in several weeks. She didn’t even notice the people out strolling—the old men, the young lovers, the babushkas with grandchildren—along the canal, soaking up the sunlight. Musya simply wanted this day to be over, the light extinguished.
Especially thankful that the days were growing shorter, she now stood on the balcony and watched as the sun fell to its death. She stood on the far right of the balcony, the late afternoon rush of Nevsky Prospekt right beneath her. Yet, she didn’t even see the busses, the masses of people that had swollen the sidewalks for hours. All she saw was the yellow ball, quite swollen across the street and above the Anichkov Palace. Actually, it seemed bigger than ever, seemed to grow in size, as it burned from yellow to deep red.
“Let’s go,” said a deep voice from within the apartment.
At last, she thought, and the frown on her face exploded into a grin. She dashed inside, closing the French doors behind her. Seeing Kyril, however, her enthusiasm crashed like a dropped vase. His skin was pale and his lack of energy visible. The left sleeve of his leather coat—a small hole where the bullet had pierced—hung limp; his wounded arm was pressed carefully to his stomach. How could she, a good med-sister, lead him away from his bed of rest and recovery?
“Are you sure you’re strong enough? Are you in pain? Perhaps you should stay in bed awhile longer. Da, da, I think that’s what you must—”
“Nyet.”
“But, dearest, you—”
“Boris isn’t a pot of borscht that will improve with age. We must go now, tonight.”
Her head bobbed up and down. She wanted desperately to put an end to Boris, but she simply wasn’t certain tonight was the best time. Could Kyril hold up? He’d lost so much blood.
“Kyryozhinka, my love, I think it best that you stay and I go.”
“Nyet. With or without you, I’m going.”
“Well, I’m not staying here with those two fresh bodies in the kitchen and Elizaveta Nikolaevna crammed in the trunk. Besides, you need someone to look after you.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” A puffy frown covered her face. “I’ve taken good care of you, haven’t I?”
When he hadn’t been sleeping, she’d been feeding him. Borscht, thick with beef, pink with sour cream. Tea and jam. Cheese. Fresh black bread. And caviar for extra strength.
“Well,” she admitted. “I suppose you do look good. I can see it now, the color’s even back in your cheeks. But are you sure you feel like going?”
“I assure you, my love, that I won’t rest peacefully until this is over.”
She kissed him on each cheek, and they started for the door. Musya took her purse from the sofa and swung her trench coat over her shoulders.
“Do we have everything?” she asked.
Kyril opened his coat, exposed his cleaver that hung from the cotton noose. She checked for the gun and bullets inside her purse, then went to the trunk by the front door and scooped up the car keys. She pinched her nose and turned to Kyril.
“Foo-foo. The two in the kitchen aren’t too bad yet, but I can take only another day or so of Lila Nikolaevna. If we get back early
enough, we must do something about her,” she said, waving the back of her hand at the trunk.
“She has become rather offensive, hasn’t she?” He took Musya by the arm. “You’re certain about this, aren’t you? Where he is, I mean.”
“Kyril, darling, you can’t sleep next to someone for so many years without knowing something about him—no matter how much you dislike him. I feel it. I know it in my bones.”
His small dark eyes burned away her last doubt.
“Golubchik, I’m positive,” said Musya. “Boris is at Zarekino. It’s as if his love for me beckons us.”
Chapter 31
In his sleep, Boris felt the smooth skin spread next to his. He touched it, was drawn to it. More. He just wanted more of it to rub all over his naked body. He cupped one of her breasts in his palm and stroked the nipple. He felt her body shift like a warm sea.
Now half-awake, he rolled on his side and was met by her beckoning hands. She pulled him on top of her. Their mouths met, kissed deeply. His fingers clasped her, pulling her tighter.
She opened her legs and lifted her knees, pushing away the wool blanket. She was ready for him, and he felt himself slide into her easily, warmly. Like a passionate nightmare, their movement quickened, raced, as if this were the end of hours of work. Boris felt his skin spread with sweat. Was this a dream or reality? Faster and faster. He heard her moans in his ear, felt her fingers on his back pushing him deeper into her. Then abruptly, they both stiffened and cried out.
Boris’ body went soft and his weight sank on her. Her arms wrapped around him. She wouldn’t let loose.
He rubbed his cheek on her shoulder. “What a wonderful way to wake up.”
Lara opened hers eyes for the first time. “Who’s awake? Let’s go back to sleep and do it again.”
“What time is it?”
To answer his own question, Boris slid off her and sauntered to the wooden shutter. Outside, the light was low and pale on the birches.
“It’s early. The sun’s just coming up.”
“We’ve only slept a few hours?”
Boris stuck his hand in his curly hair and followed the beams of light to their source. Wait, he thought. Something’s not right. If it were morning, the sun should be over there, across from the palace. Not behind it.
“Oi yoi yoi. It must be afternoon. We slept right through the day.” His mouth big and wide, his teeth bright, he laughed. “The sun’s already going down. It will be night soon.”
Half an hour later, Boris stood by the woodpile near the dacha. He leaned against a tree and stared at the sun that was disappearing behind the palace, and thought of his father. No wonder Arkady Yakovich had loved Zarekino. This was where everything came to a slow stop, where the world rested itself. Out here, there were no politics, there was no Party.
That was why, Boris knew, he still liked coming here. More than simply a safe place, the dacha at Zarekino was where conflict did not exist, where father and son continued to come in closest touch with one another. That was why he wanted to keep the dacha and give Musya the apartment. The flat in town, after all, came into the family simply because of his father’s political standing.
Stacking birch logs in his arms, he realized what his father had wanted of him. Actually, he had always understood. That was the problem.
Suddenly the logs came tumbling out of his arms, crashing to the ground. Boris rubbed an eye, felt how dry it was and would remain, and for a moment wished he could be a boy again so he could cry. Slumping on the ground, he sat with his head in his hand, and soon the cool evening air filled him, calmed him like the purest vodka. It had been a beautiful day, a day of women’s summer, that special time when fall relapses for a while.
Lara stepped around the front of the dacha, where she’d been tending a samovar. “Boris, are you all right?”
He stared at her, thought a second, and shouted, “It’s not my fault he was mad at me!”
“What?”
“I understood him,” he yelled. “But he never understood me. He never even tried. He made me feel like I was the one who failed.” The truth came blurting out of him, clear and painful, and to the ground he said, “But really he was the one who failed. He failed me, his son!”
He turned back toward the palace, gazed at its broken outline hideously highlighted by the last of the sun. One could stay defeated or one could move on. With a deep sigh, he pushed himself to his feet, picked up the logs, and started for the dacha.
Inside, he found Lara setting a dented samovar by an open window. She blew on the fire of twigs and grass that was growing in its heart, then attached a small chimney that carried the smoke out the window. He followed her movements, then without speaking, crossed the room, knelt, and lay the logs in the large clay stove one at a time. With the strike of a match, the fire began to burn yellow and red, bright and warm. In it Boris saw images of Arkady Yakovich.
Her hands landed on his shoulders, and she said, “Boris… is everything okay?”
He nodded and stared at the flames. “I miss him, the old Bolshevik. Especially here. This was the one place we could come and not be at odds.”
“Your father?”
“Da, da. Papa.”
She reached around, felt the ridges, and pressed away the wrinkles in his forehead. “Is it that sad?”
“M-m-da, I suppose it is.” He shrugged. “It’s odd how you find a single key and it opens more than just one door.”
As if mourning the loss of the day, the hounds at the palace suddenly started to cry. A whole choir of them raised their heads and emptied their lungs, a requiem for all that was gone. Boris listened, their cries more soothing than threatening and almost as purifying as the ripple of the river’s water.
He wasn’t sure what key it was that he’d found. Perhaps it was one to his father—and that helped him see the truth about Musya. No. Musya was the first door he’d opened. Realizing the desire to be honest with her made him long for honesty about his father too.
“Sometimes the truth is too powerful,” he said. “It can drown you. That’s what I was afraid of. Opening something and not being able to survive it. But you… you gave me a reason to keep my head above the surface.”
“Nyet. You kept your own head above the water. You would have done it sooner or later. With or without me.”
He kissed her, and all those long-fought battles seemed to fade, neither won nor lost, simply concluded. He knew he was right. He forgave himself and he forgave his father. Actually, there’d been nothing to forgive. All of it—everything—had been a series of stepping stones that had led him up to this very moment. Without the trials, would there be Lara? Would he ever have found her?
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“The water in the samovar should be hot soon. We can have some tea. Actually, let’s have breakfast, lunch and dinner all at once.”
Boris hugged her. Everything, he felt, was almost complete, the puzzle almost solved. Finally, rubbing his forehead, he broke away and went to the window.
“You know, I want to turn my back on my past. I want my new life—our new life—to begin.”
“Boris, it’s already begun,” Lara assured him.
“It has and it hasn’t. Something lingers.” His father was dead, nothing to do but make peace in his mind. There was, however, someone else. “And that’s Musya. I’m determined to tell her the truth even if it kills me.”
Chapter 32
As night settled on the palace, Tyotya could stand it no more. She’d kept Milka and Toozik with her all day, never out of eyesight, because Boris Ankadievich and that woman were down at the dacha. But the hounds were going to drive her crazy. Rather than being exhausted from their run last night, they were energized and they wanted more. Run. Outside. Hunt. That’s what they seemed to be begging with their big eyes. That’s what they wanted each time they nudged Tyotya with their long snouts. Now, inside, the dogs followed her every movement and were never more tha
n a half-step behind her.
Finally, ‘Tyotya threw up her hands. “Oi, we can’t start hunting until our visitors at the dacha leave!”
She stomped into the back room and reached into the wooden tub for the last of the udder. Food, she hoped, would calm them. Her anger causing her old muscles to ache, she spread the raw meat on the stump, then with the skill of a knife thrower, divided it perfectly. Almost knocking her over, the tall dogs swarmed around her as she tossed the meat into two dishes.
“Calm yourself!” she snapped, smacking Milka on her nose. “Special food only because you have to stay in again. No running free tonight. You must stay with me.”
As the hounds swallowed their food, she went to the other wall and washed her hands in a pail of water. Drying herself on her black skirt, she crossed the large room with its arched ceiling and looked out the window. Down the hill she could see a window in a cabin glow with light. A curl of smoke rose from the chimney too. So they were still there, Boris Ankadievich and the other one. They’d been quiet all day, so quiet that Tyotya wondered if they’d somehow left unnoticed. She didn’t like having others around, but at least these two young people wouldn’t be a bother.
She wouldn’t tolerate any disruption. Zarekino had to be kept safe, guarded from hooligans. That was her job, the reason the authorities let her remain all these years. She had to look after the place until it was restored.
She made her way to a bench along the far wall and sat down. At her feet lay a knife that she used for cutting the finished yarn and a mounting pile of the finest hair—white and sable and silver—that she’d collected over the past month. She didn’t need much money, only enough to buy salt and kerosene and a few other things; she grew her own potatoes and cabbage. What money she did need, though, she earned from the sale of the yarn she spun and from the meat she collected from her hunts. Her hounds, after all, were the swiftest creatures in the area, and when the dachas were empty for the winter she would take her animals out, two or three at a time. She almost always returned with a deer or wild dog or other woodland creature, which the meat-poor villagers eagerly bought up.
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