“Fortune-telling is the work of charlatans, Agnessa.”
Afon reached for a piece of black bread. “Can she tell me what regiment I’ll be assigned?”
“I know it’s bad luck to try and see the future, but she is quite famous. The best people come from all over to see her. She told Roksana Petrovana she would pass a stone and it came out of her that very night.”
“Let’s talk about your name day, Agnessa,” I said. “Father arranged quite a gift.”
She leaned closer. “The way I look at it, little Max crossed water once in going to America when you were pregnant with him. The second time was when your water broke and he was born. And he crossed a third time sailing back.”
“Do we really—”
“So that leaves one more crossing.”
A cold shudder went through me, strange for such a warm day, and I gathered Max closer. I would get Maxwell in my arms where he would stay for the entire summer and not so much as look at a washbasin. I couldn’t live through another accident. Max’s hand had slipped out of mine when he was just learning to walk and he fell and cut his chin deeply. Agnessa ran about the house crying as Father sent for the doctor and I used my skirt to stem the flow of blood.
I felt Max’s chin for the scar and felt, with a pit in my stomach, the ridge there.
“And then she looked like she’d seen the bowels of hell and refused to continue.”
“I hope you paid her well,” Father said with his gaze on his newspaper. “Sensitives can put a hex on you.”
“Did you ask her if there will be another revolution?” Luba asked, exchanging smiles with Afon.
Agnessa smoothed the tablecloth. “The tsar’s troops will put down any revolt. It’s his divine right to rule, though he doesn’t seem to be doing much of that.”
I shifted in my seat. Such bad manners for Agnessa to mention the tsar’s name at the table, but since she started it, I dove in. “It’s terribly unfair the tsar keeps twenty-one palaces, when his people are starving.”
Luba forked a beef kidney and eyed it. “The soldiers are hungry, too. Barely fed some days, isn’t that right, Father?”
“Luba, go study your French, this instant,” Agnessa said.
“Right away,” Luba said. She stayed where she sat and read the book in her lap.
“Think the tsar will keep Fena’s House open when we’re gone?” I asked Father.
Agnessa sat up straighter. “Must we talk about that place on my name day?”
Though my home for impoverished women was widely considered a worthy cause, Agnessa loathed talking about it or anything else connected to my mother.
“I will write the Ministry and ask them to oversee it,” Father said. “In the meantime we must take precautions here.”
“True,” Agnessa said. “The villagers love us, but one never knows. Watch them come take over this place and make us all corner tenants.”
“Father has been kind to them,” I said.
“Just hope the imperial forces guard the emerald mines,” Agnessa said.
Afon stood. “Perhaps we should show Agnessa her gift?”
Luba sat up straighter, causing the little red bell, which hung from a cord about her neck, to issue a gay little jingle. “Time for the surprise?”
She must have been caught speaking Russian again, hence Agnessa’s punishment: wearing the “devil’s bell.” Little did Agnessa know Luba liked the bell and considered it a badge of honor for, though French and English were more fashionable, Russian had been our Mother’s language of choice.
Agnessa pulled Tum-Tum closer. “The only gift I want is a train straight to Paris.”
Father stood and stepped to Agnessa’s chair. “Just a few more days, my love. I am tying up loose ends with the Ministry. You should begin packing, only the most necessary items.”
“And fold up our tent like Bedouins and leave with nothing?”
“Once Afon goes, we must move quickly. We can return once it’s safe.”
Agnessa held a cube of cheese under the dog’s snout and he turned his head away. “Could we proceed with the gift? I have much to attend to. Six courses for Max’s name-day dinner, alone.”
“Do give a hint about the gift, Father,” Luba said.
“Well…it’s quite big.”
“I hope it’s an amethyst,” Agnessa said.
“It’s out in the far barn,” Father said.
The estate boasted a whole collection of barns: the near barn, in which we stored sacks of grain, the twenty-stall horse barn, the dairy barn, and the empty far barn.
Agnessa looked about to cry. “You know I dislike barns, darling.”
“Let’s blindfold her!” Luba said.
“It’s the manure,” Agnessa said, a damask napkin to one nostril. “I can smell it from the house.”
Father pulled the napkin from her hand, snapped it into a triangle like a bandit’s kerchief, and tied it around Agnessa’s eyes.
Luba ran to Agnessa and led her by the hand like a blind person. Agnessa clutched Tum-Tum to her chest as Luba led her toward the barns and we followed.
We walked in a group. Max was at my hip and he swayed in my arms, singing his favorite song, getting only about every third word right. It was a macabre little French nursery song Agnessa taught him about sailors at sea who decide to eat a little boy.
There was once a little boat
That never on the sea had sailed
Ahoy! Ahoy!
After five or six weeks rations began to wane
Ahoy! Ahoy!
The adults joined in and sang as we passed Agnessa’s hothouse and the wind delivered a waft of the lazy, sweet scent of peach. What a pretty, glass-paned hothouse orangery it was, sent from Paris, the top edged in white scalloped metal; inside, even in autumn, the dwarf lemon trees were heavy with fruit. I cherished my time there under glass, little Max playing at my feet as I repotted plants and grafted roots, the watery breath of gardenias, Amazonian orchids, and Mr. Gardener’s roses clinging to the windows. I admired his white rose so much I propagated a whole shelf of individual plants from it, each with its root ball secured in a burlap bulb bag tied with twine.
“There isn’t anything I could possibly want out here,” Agnessa said, one hand feeling the air in front of her.
“Just relax,” I said.
Luba led Agnessa into the far barn, which no longer housed animals, but the smell of hay still lingered. Afon and I followed and he took my hand, our steps soft on cedar shavings. Father waved us in. Placed against one wall was a hulking, dull green metal box as tall and wide as a bull elk. It rumbled as if a small animal ran about inside it.
As we edged closer, Tum-Tum growled and Agnessa hugged him tighter.
Father took Agnessa’s hand and placed it on the metal.
“Tell me this instant, Ivan.”
He unknotted Agnessa’s blindfold.
She scowled, blinking in the low light. “Dear God, what is it?”
Luba stepped to the metal thing and opened the hinged door on the front. “Can you not tell? It’s an ice machine, Agnessa. It will make ice for you day and night.”
“Afon’s friend from the automobile club brought a generator to run it.”
Agnessa handed Tum-Tum to Father and stood still, mouth agape. “Holy Fathers. Oh, Ivan, once we return from Paris I can have all the parties I want.” She reached into the hole and ran her hands through the pale blue cubes. “And it’s the clear ice I like, darling, not the cloudy kind.”
Father kissed her cheek, a look of true love on his face. Hard as it was to deal with her sometimes, she made him happy.
Agnessa held two cubes in her palm, like a child at her name-day party, a few curls escaped from her upswept hair, as she went to each of us in turn, showing off her new gifts. Sh
e handed Max a cube, he stared at it in his palm and then dropped it to the cedar shavings with a shriek.
“Froid!” he said.
This sent us all into fits of laughter.
I held him close and felt his heart beat through his little vest. “Yes, it is very cold, my darling.”
“I am the luckiest woman on earth,” Agnessa said with a faraway smile, the cube forming a little puddle in her palm.
* * *
—
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke and nestled closer to Afon. He barely stirred as I pressed against him, my belly to his back, and felt his hip bone through his pajamas. How thin he’d become just from one week of a sore throat. Perhaps we could sneak away for a few hours alone before he left. Since Max’s birth he’d all but ignored me in that way, perhaps fearing I’d suffer another difficult birth. Dr. Abushkin said I would not have another child, but why not prove him wrong?
I left the bed and, eager to see my horse, pinned up my hair, proud to do it with only five pins, as Mother taught me. I stepped to my wedding chest to consider my trousseau.
I ran my fingers down the silk of a powder blue camisole. According to Agnessa, men abhor blue on women, and like black underthings or nothing at all. I drew a lacey, beige corset cover from the drawer and slipped it on over bare skin. Once I pulled it tight across my chest and hooked it down the front, scandalous glimpses of skin showed through the glorious spiderwebs of open lacework. I slipped a blouse over it, pulled on my riding pants, and left Afon a note to follow me.
I made sure Raisa was stirring in case Max woke, and then stepped to Luba’s room. She sat on the floor, legs crossed, scissoring something.
“Come for a ride?” I asked, one hand on her doorjamb.
Light flashed upon the silver scissors as she hid them behind her back. “I’m busy.”
This was the secret project she’d been working on. Luba kept the details private, but I knew it involved silver paper, for the floor of her bedroom was littered with flecks of it.
“Don’t go outside the gates, Sofya. It isn’t safe.”
“I can outride anyone.”
“You’ll be dead for sure if Agnessa catches you in those riding pants again.”
“And what if she catches you with scissors? Where did you even find them?”
Luba was magpie-like with her ability to acquire things. “I did not steal them from Agnessa’s sewing basket. I swear by God’s stars.”
“You only say that when you lie. Swear on Father’s life.”
Luba smiled. “Have a good ride, sister.”
As I walked toward the barn my horse, Jarushka, snorted gently, expecting her petting and carrot. Of course, she knew I was coming, for she had a sixth sense. The product of an unplanned, midnight liaison between a hefty Cossack cavalry horse and one of the tsar’s prize Arab mares, she was a sight to behold with her shaggy fetlocks, coarse mane and tail, and lop ears that hung down like a dog’s. Though not handsome enough for Agnessa, Jarushka had superior wind, an angelic disposition, and an undying loyalty to her owner, for which cavalry horses are known. With her light chestnut coloring and silky-smooth canter, she was the perfect horse for me.
We rode out through the gates onto a path through the woods, the trees a glorious blaze of autumn color. I gave Jarushka her head and soon we jumped downed trees and crashed through the undergrowth, making new paths as we went, cool wind in my hair.
I lost track of time, grew terribly thirsty, and stopped near a thicket of raspberries to turn back.
That is when I spied the crude little cabin. I had almost missed it, for it was built into the side of a rock outcropping, the weathered wood walls the same color as the stone. I rode closer. It was a snug little place with one bare window, a front door fixed with a coarse rope pull.
“Anyone there?” I called out in Russian, my voice sounding harsh yet strangely muted there in the forest. Only larks answered.
I slid down off the warm leather saddle, tied Jarushka to a tree branch, and then, heart pounding, stood tall to peek through the window. I could see only part of the room, a rough-hewn table covered with tools.
I pushed the door open, walked in with the step of a trespasser, and, to my great relief, no person slept there. It was a homey little place, furnished with the table and an army cot, topped with a bearskin.
A wall of moist, blue stone served as the cabin’s back wall and it shone in the dim light. There was no musty smell, only a pleasant peppermint scent. A small ax and several wood-handled tools lay on the table surrounded by tiny gold and silver shards. A knife lay there, half-finished, the blade still rough. I grasped it by the handle and ran my fingers down the smooth wood inlaid with sterling silver, the black letter “T” no bigger than my pinkie fingernail burned into the knife’s flank.
I stepped to the window and scanned a collection of postcards impaled next to it by the nails of the unfinished wall. They were captioned in French and depicted young women in various stages of undress. I ran the tip of the knife down one, of a naked girl smiling at the camera from a shallow basin of bathwater. Another, completely nude, blew her flute to charm a snake from a basket. They were all blond, from top to bottom.
All at once a rustling sound came from the woods behind the cabin. I crouched to the dirt floor near the table, barely able to breathe. My heart hammered against my knees as I strained to hear. The sound came closer and the knife handle grew slippery in my palm.
All at once the door swung open and in the morning darkness I could only see the silhouette against the light.
I stood. “I have a knife—”
“You aim to kill me before breakfast?” said the assailant, stepping back.
“Afon.” The blood rushed back into my arms. “Really.”
He stepped into the room, as if arriving at a fine hotel room, piece of bread in hand, canteen strapped across his chest. “I’ve never noticed this place before.”
I slid the knife back onto the table. “How did I not hear you ride up?”
Afon came to me, still wearing his nightshirt, tucked into his trousers. He looked like a young boy that morning, his dark hair not yet combed.
He smiled. “Guess they should assign me to an army stealth unit.” He took a deep breath in. “Can you believe the larch trees this year, Sofya? That pine scent is like medicine.”
“You should be an arborist.”
“And who would stand up to the German hordes who want our trees?” He glanced around the little house. “We left our son to the care of Agnessa, you know. Raisa had to go see her cousin in town.”
How stupid I was. Max with Agnessa? “Oh no, Afon.”
“Agnessa was at her vanity table, giving him free rein of her jewel case, but before long she’ll be resting on her bed with boric acid pads on her eyes, letting him wander.”
“You could have brought him.”
“It’s my last day as a free man, Sofya. I needed a good ride.” His glance rested on the postcards on the wall. “Who lives here? Bogdan?”
I stepped to the postcards. “I don’t think so.”
He stood behind me. “Quite a collection.”
I pulled the snake charmer postcard from the nail. “I’ve never been to India but I don’t think it’s done like this….”
Afon took the card from me and tucked it in his pocket. “I may need to borrow this for future study of a scientific nature.”
I wrapped my arms around his waist and lay my cheek at his chest. “I’ll miss you.”
He held me away from him. “Stay strong, darling. You mustn’t cry.”
I reached for the canteen strap and he helped me loop it over his head. As I raised it to my lips and drank, water fell to my blouse, revealing the lace below. He brushed the water away. I gathered courage and kissed him on the mouth.
He seemed surprised at fi
rst, but returned the kiss. He tasted of black bread and tea.
“Afon, let’s find a better…”
He kissed the hollow of my cheek and worked his way to my neck. “I’m glad you’re an early riser.”
Afon slowly ran his lips down the length my neck, causing me to catch my breath.
He became quite serious as he unfastened the top button of my blouse. “You smell like a whole garden.”
I pulled the pins from my hair and it fell down my back as he released two more of my shirt buttons and slid his hands down the sides of my corset cover.
“I love you in lingerie, Sofya.”
“What if someone happens upon us?” I asked.
He gathered my hair in great handfuls and pressed soft kisses down my throat sending the scent of fresh air, pine, and wood—
All at once from the corner of my eye I spied something at the window. A blur at first. A glimpse of blue shirt.
I breathed in a sharp burst of air. “Afon. What was that?”
“Probably a bird,” Afon said, working his lips down my neck.
“No. I saw something. A man. Watching—”
A shot rang out in the woods, not far from us, so loud I felt the vibration of it through the stone against my back.
Afon pulled me close enough to feel the thump of his chest. We barely breathed there in the darkened cabin.
“Don’t move,” Afon whispered in my ear. “I’ll be right back.”
Afon hurried out the door and ran toward the sound of the shot. I followed and soon we came upon old Bogdan lying on the forest floor, blood seeping through the shoulder of his shirt.
“Think it was a thirty-five. Went straight through.”
“Did you see who did it?” Afon asked.
“I went for my gun but he got me from behind.”
Afon and I exchanged glances. Perhaps Father was right about leaving for Paris right away.
CHAPTER
9
Varinka
1916
I woke early the day I was to report to the countess’s home. I lay on my child-sized straw mattress-bed atop the massive, whitewashed Russian oven, in the snug place Papa fashioned for me up there, close enough to Mamka to hear her breathe at night.
Lost Roses Page 10