Heart of Iron

Chapter 4

I did not get a chance to tell Olga about my miraculous rescue and the terrible behavior of the Nikolashki — by the time Mr. Bartram and I arrived at the dormitories, all windows but mine were dark. I listened to Anastasia’s relieved exclamations and then went to bed, but not before peeking out of the window, and observing that, to my disappointment, my rescuer was gone.

I saw him on Monday in my philosophy class. It took place in the afternoon, when most of those present, full and contented after lunch, dozed to the monotone of Professor Zhmurkin, who informed us of the Prime Mover and other such fanciful notions. I, however, was alert, and looked past Olga and Dasha’s nodding heads (it was like watching a seesaw) to the back of the auditorium. When I looked behind me, my heart fluttered painfully in my chest. The colorful robes and long braids were gone now, replaced by a row of empty seats. There were three Chinese students left in attendance, and all of them had their hair cut in the current style and wore Western dress.

My sorrow was quickly replaced by blushing, fluttering joy as my eyes met the steely-gray gaze of the Englishman from last night, who smiled and nodded to me as if I were an old friend. I quickly turned away, and listened to the lecture, flustered by my embarrassing joy. I should not be feeling elated with Chiang Tse and Lee Bo missing and Wong Jun no doubt languishing in some prison. But what could I do help them?

As always, I imagined what Aunt Eugenia would say. Her stern voice crystallized in my mind with perfect clarity. “Foolish girl,” she would’ve said if she were here. “You have plenty of connections in this city — don’t tell me your poor mother and I wasted our time introducing you. If you want to find something out, nothing’s stopping you.”

That was true enough, I thought. Yet Eugenia had never been subtle, and I suspected that the matter of arrested foreign friends required at least a modicum of subtlety. Unfortunately, I was too much of Eugenia’s niece to think of anything artful. My first inclination was to march to the Winter Palace and shout at the emperor; my second was to spit in his brother’s smug face. Either course of action was unlikely to yield the desired results.

I barely heard the end of the lecture, and nudged Olga when we were dismissed. She woke with a start, rubbed her eyes, and shot me a look of mild irritation. “What did you do that for?”

“Time to go,” I said timidly. I still hadn’t apologized for Saturday; I wasn’t planning to even though I knew she expected it.

Olga rose and followed Dasha Muravieva out, and I lagged behind, angry at myself for feeling guilt even though I had done nothing wrong. I was almost ready to apologize anyway, so as not to feel so shut out.

“Miss Trubetskaya?” I heard a soft male voice behind me. I knew who it was before I turned around.

There was a sly quality to Jack Bartram’s smile, and it made me think that he was always hiding something wonderful, that he held some magical secret in the hands he clasped behind his back.

I couldn’t help but smile in return. “Mr. Bartram. It is a pleasure to see that you are well.”

“As well as your friends.” He followed me out of the auditorium and offered me his arm, which I took with a sense of developing habit.

“What do you know about them?”

He leaned closer, his warm breath tickling the tip of my ear. “A friend of mine was at the train station yesterday, early in the morning. He saw two young men of Chinese origin board the train, and I’d wager they were those fine gentlemen I never got a chance to properly meet. I thought you might like to know that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bartram,” I said, an enormous weight left my shoulders with such alacrity that I stumbled. Only Jack’s arm allowed me to maintain my upright posture. “That is wonderful news. Now, if I could only find out about Wong Jun and where they are keeping him… ”

Jack only shook his head. “I cannot help you there, Miss Trubetskaya.”

“You’ve already accomplished a great deal,” I said. “I am quite grateful. I will now look into the matter using my own resources.”

“I wish you good luck,” he said. Once outside, he put on his hat — not a top hat like most men wore that season, but the wide-brimmed, soft contraption he’d worn the night before. It hid most of his face from view — although not from me, because I walked closely enough to peek under it.

I had forgotten about Olga and Dasha who had gone ahead, quite content to walk along with Jack Bartram in whatever direction he cared to point the tips of his black scuffed boots. Even though his legs were ridiculously long, he took care to match his loping stride to mine, and seemed as pleased to walk along the paths covered in yellow leaves as I was. We breathed the bitter autumn smells and the scent of coal from the river, and I found myself in front of my dormitory quite a bit sooner than I expected.

As much as I found Jack’s attention flattering — especially because, rightly or wrongly, I assumed he was less aware of my impending titles and fortune than my compatriots, and therefore I could ascribe unselfish motives to him. As soon as I was alone in my apartment, I turned my mind to finding out about Wong Jun. It really would be more convenient, I mused, if one had an ability to not worry about people one had just met and seen arrested by the secret police. For better or worse, however, such ability was as beyond my grasp as the clouds now gathering outside of my windows.

Anastasia busied herself in the kitchen, and I sat by the window, resting my chin on folded arms, various possibilities bumping against each other in my mind. I had deferred worry over Lee Bo and Chiang Tse, having decided to trust Jack’s word of their safety. Wong Jun still seemed a natural target for my concern.

I took out my notebook and leafed through the notes, past diagrams of Newtonian and Da Vincian machines, to the meager still-empty section. I settled my lap-desk and snatched up my pen. Uncapping the well, I inhaled the rich smell of ink. I tore a page from my notebook, each page bearing the insignia of St. Petersburg’s University. Of course I had my own stationery, with the Trubetskoy crest, but the use of a page torn from a student’s notebook seemed a better choice. I was not above trying to project an image of artless and studious youth and innocence if it could help Wong Jun.

I addressed my query to Prince Nicholas himself and sealed the letter with the Trubetskoy seal, to ensure that it would be read. With nothing else to pursue as far as Won Jun’s predicament, I turned to studying for my impending exams.

I looked forward to the end of term and the short respite before the next one began — and I fervently hoped I would be able to see Eugenia and my mother during the recess.

Exams had filled me with enough sense of impending doom to chase almost every other thought from my mind. The increasing gulf between Olga and me seemed almost natural considering recent events, and the new friendship with Dasha Muravieva filled what little need for companionship I felt. But Jack Bartram occupied what thoughts I had other than study — quite disproportionately to our short walks between the philosophy class and the dormitory. During these strolls we spoke little, and I wondered about the role these ritual walks were starting to play in my life.

Jack rarely spoke about himself — I only gleaned that philosophy was his main focus and that he hoped to attempt a course of study in Germany, perhaps next year. I asked him about London, but he grew recalcitrant and spoke only in generalities. He complained about the smell from the Thames, and mentioned its gas-lit streets as something he was trying to leave behind, not dwell upon. I was left to imagine the infamous fog and Buckingham Palace by myself.

With October came rains and mists. Jack grew more wistful during our walks. He said a few times that the river and the severe stone city on its banks reminded him of home, but mostly we shared our anxiety about the impending exams. We never mentioned Wong Jun or the fact that there were now no Chinese students left at all. If he ever visited the Crane Club since the night of our first meeting, he never told me about it. I had almost forgotten about the letter I sent to Prince Nicholas — or rather, I assumed it was glanced at and discarded, and I would have to wait for December when my aunt arrived in St. Petersburg and perhaps felt inclined to exercising her influence on my behalf. There was nothing else to do until then.

The exam week started on October 17th, and I was so terrified that I could spare no thought for anyone but myself. Olga and Dasha, Larisa and Elena were also quite agitated. On the morning of the exam in human biology we all could be mistaken for ghosts — we had grown pale, and even though we didn’t moan or clang spectral chains as we walked toward the auditorium, I thought our inner anguish more than made up for lack of outward effects.

We gathered in our usual auditorium; the exam was administered by Professor Ipatiev himself and two of his colleagues, neither of whom I had encountered prior to the day of exam. Their anonymity made them all the more desirable as examiners in my eyes. I said my little prayers and approached the dais covered in green felt, where the examination questions, each written on a long paper strip, were laid out, text facing down. I drew a question and dared a glance at it as I walked to my seat. A mix of relief and gratitude washed over me when I realized that I had to do nothing more complicated than describe the human circulatory system.

The second stroke of luck occurred when it was my turn to present my question — Ipatiev was deeply engaged in interrogating poor Larisa Kulich, and another examiner, a young man with a soft flaxen beard and gentle eyes motioned for me to sit in front of him.

I settled, not quite believing my luck. My heart beat so loudly, I feared the examiner would hear it rather than my voice, but I calmed and began explaining — appropriately, considering my physical reaction — the circulatory system starting with heart and lungs. The examiner smiled encouragingly and nodded along, and I could not quite believe what was happening: it appeared as if I would pass this — the most difficult — exam. The rest of them did not warrant a slightest worry in my mind.

I was almost finished — only the capillaries left to expound upon — and the professor had smiled and reached for my examination booklet, when the doors of the auditorium squealed open, and rough boots pounded the floors. Several uniformed men squinted in the murky air of auditorium. Their attire was not that of the civil police, but indicated they were from the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

Professor Ipatiev looked up, irritation spreading from him in almost palpable waves along with the smell of sweet pipe tobacco. “What do you want?” he called. “Just tell me who you’re looking for, and let us get on with our examinations, if the emperor does not mind.”

One of the men cleared his throat and looked at the sheet of paper crumpled in his large fist overgrown with sparse red hairs. “Alexandra Trubetskaya,” he announced loudly.

All eyes were on me, and I felt as exposed and tiny as I did during my debut, only this time I was the sole cause of everyone in the auditorium turning toward me, and there was no aunt to shield me from their hostility. I stood, gathered my muff and parasol, and walked toward the policemen.

The one who had called my name reached out as if to grab my arm, but I had quite enough humiliation for one day, and being manhandled by his ilk was still fresh in my memory. I whipped my parasol across his knuckles, and he withdrew his hand with a hiss.

“Now,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster, “there seems to be some mistake, for there is absolutely no reason for you to interfere with my schooling. I have done nothing illegal. I will gladly come with you to clear up any misunderstanding, but please do not lay your hands on me. I have heard of a number of unfortunate maiming accidents involving parasols. You would not wish such to befall you.”

He grumbled under his breath but did not attempt further contact. As I exited, surrounded by a cluster of uniformed men and my heart in my stomach — not because I feared them but because I worried that leaving an examination room would count as failure — I noticed Olga looking straight at me, with a brave and encouraging smile on her face. I smiled back, even though my own circulatory system felt as if it was filled with ash instead of blood.

As we headed away from the building, my thoughts took a dark turn; I suspected that Professor Ipatiev would be more than pleased to fail me for not completing the examination. Further, the news of my undignified arrest would soon spread to the palace and the emperor would be glad for an excuse to disassociate himself from our family — what my aunt’s outbursts could not accomplish, my consorting with a dangerous foreign element would. I could already think of all the things they would say about me and the Chinese students, about the hazards of admitting women and Chinamen into hallowed halls… my ears burned just thinking about such indignity.

We approached the Palace Bridge when a familiar swirl of a gray cloak caught my attention. There was no reason for me to expect Jack’s appearance; yet the moment I saw him, I realized I had been holding my breath, hoping he would to come to my aid. When he did, I thought he had an extraordinarily sharp nose for police — secret or uniformed — and could not help but smile.

He approached us in an easy step, his eyes curious and bright. I thought he couldn’t very well attack any of my capturers, since they were in uniform and it was broad daylight. Still, I waited for miracles. Jack did not hesitate to produce one — or rather, he pulled a sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket, and handed it to the apparent officer in charge. After a few whispered words he joined our party. I kept quiet and he did not say a word to me.

We passed the Palace Square and the Decembrists Square, close to the embankment, away from the streets dedicated to the tenements of the mercantile classes and the offices of clerks and minor governmental officials. They took me to Gorokhovaya Street, to a large nice-looking building. All five stories teemed with intense activity — everywhere I could see clerks coming and going, most of them dressed in uniforms of the Ministry of the Internal Affairs. There were other policemen, too. The clerks’ uniforms differed from the officers who surrounded me, and lacked swords, but it was apparent my captors belonged to the ministry — and the ministry was overseen by Prince Nicholas. Evidently Nikolashki could lurk about in civilian clothing or wear uniforms in public: both a secret police and the uniformed gendarmes.

I was led into a roomy office, the parquet floors and tall windows looking out on the silvery gray autumn daylight. Only one of the gendarme officers, his epaulettes golden and red, followed me inside. Jack Bartram remained with us as well, although I still had no idea on whose sufferance he was there.

The officer in the bright epaulettes offered me a seat on a stiff little sofa that rested against white-and-gold striped wallpaper by the door. He himself took a seat behind a massive oak desk, and Jack stood by the door, which he had carefully closed behind him. I got the distinct feeling the two men were keeping some secret from me, and I was about to be scolded. That made me feel slightly better, because a scolding was much preferable to accusations of sedition and treason and a tribunal of some sort, or any of the other such things I had imagined on my way here. I rested my parasol across my lap, took off my gloves, and prepared to listen.

The officer and Jack traded a look, as if each expected the other to speak first. After a short awkward pause, the officer cleared his throat.

“You know why you are here,” he told me.

I gave a one-shouldered shrug, unwilling to commit. I then stared at Jack.

“Mr. Bartram here claims to have some information,” the officer said. “And since Her Majesty’s interests and ours happen to coincide, Mr. Bartram and his colleagues have been quite helpful in our recent investigations of the Asiatic menace with which, I hear, you are involved.”

“Not at all,” I protested.

He shuffled a few papers on his desk, and pulled out a single sheet. I recognized the page from my notebook; I think I blanched, because the gendarme gave me a humorless smile. “We have a report,” he said, “that one Wong Jun was arrested, while in company of two compatriots and a lady, reportedly of European appearance. With your letter, I am forced to conclude you were that lady — a lady who resisted arrest, interfered with the performance of police duties, and escaped lawful custody.”

“Wong Jun is a classmate of mine,” I protested. “And I am not blind — I know how many Chinese students have disappeared.”

“And yet, you’ve inquired only after the one in our custody.” The man seemed to enjoy the effect of his words. “Not anyone else. You know why you are dealing with this special branch of the police and not others, correct?”

“Military crimes,” I said, sullen. “Which I did not commit.”

“And yet, you’ve consorted with spies.”

“They are not spies,” I said, starting to lose patience. “You have no proof that any of them is involved in anything untoward, just as you have no proof that I was in any way connected with illegal activities.”

“Do you have proof that you weren’t?” he asked. “Where were you on Saturday September twenty-fourth?”

I sought feverishly for an answer — Olga? Anastasia? Both would swear they were with me the entire day; unfortunately, there were likely others who saw the two of them return to the dormitories without me.

Jack spoke. “The lady was with me,” he said. “After she separated from her maid and a friend, she went for a walk with me. Not entirely proper, perhaps, but quite legal.”

The officer’s eyes lit with understanding and a sly smile curled the corners of his mouth under his mouth under his mustache. “I see,” he said.

I nodded, speechless. I wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful Jack would lie for me, suspicious because he was probably more eager to conceal his role in the event than mine, or furious because he never told me that he represented the interests of the British crown in addition to being a student. It did explain his taciturn demeanor when he was asked about his homeland though. I finally settled on seething resentment, softened a little by regret.

I declined Jack Bartram’s offer of walking me home, and asked for someone to be sent to fetch Anastasia. She arrived soon after the paperwork was finished and I was let go with no greater punishment than admonition to be careful about writing letters to the emperor’s brother, and about who I chose as friends. I had decided to take the latter to heart, and frowned all the way home. Anastasia prattled about how worried she had been ever since Larisa and Olga told her about my sudden detainment, and how she was “this close” to sending a messenger to Trubetskoye.

I brooded all the way home and long after Anastasia made tea and supper and retired to bed. I thought it silly to be angry with Jack — if he was indeed in St. Petersburg to somehow work with Prince Nicholas and help him spy on the Chinese, then his help with Lee Bo’s and Chiang Tse’s escape made no sense. Nor did it make sense for him to help me, to lie for me in direct violation of what the policeman claimed was his mission. On the other hand, if the gendarme was deceived, then Jack was carrying forged papers, and his interests diverged quite greatly from those of both empires. That sounded even more dangerous than having Chinese friends and resisting arrest.

I finally slept, only because my philosophy exam was the next day and I had already lost an entire afternoon of studying; I did not need to add a sleepless night to the list of my disadvantages.

The next morning, Olga burst into my room to inform me of the events following my extraction from the examination room. It was a pandemonium, she said. There had been laughter and speculation, and Professor Ipatiev said rather loudly to the professor who had been examining me — his name turned out to be Parshin — that since I had not finished my exam, I should be required to retake it.

I gasped at this point in the story, since I could think of nothing worse than being re-examined by Ipatiev who would surely not let me pass. It was just unfair, I thought — of course the professors knew more than the students, of course Ipatiev could fail me quite easily.

Olga, however, wagged her finger in my direction, and continued. “Only as soon as he said it, Professor Parshin jumped up and said that yours was one of the best examinations he had ever had an honor of witnessing — I swear, he did say ‘honor.’ And then he took your examination booklet and wrote ‘Excellent’ in it, so Ipatiev and everyone else could see. I offered to take it to you.” Olga extracted my booklet from her muff and handed it to me, smiling. “I didn’t think Ipatiev could be taken aback, but there he was. Here, don’t leave that behind again.”

“Not unless they decide to drag me to jail or something,” I muttered as I stared on the first page of the booklet, my first grade. Professor Parshin had beautiful penmanship.

Olga’s voice intruded. “What was that about then?” she asked. “I don’t even know what happened to you at the club… and afterwards. And who is that Englishman who follows you around.”

I did not want to place blame, but saw no way around it. “I thought you did not want to know.”

Olga’s gaze met mine. “Surely you can understand my position. My father is a nobody, our family cannot shrug off political scandals.”

“Neither can mine,” I said. After I gave it some thought, I touched Olga’s hand. “But I see your point, and it would be more dangerous to you.”

Olga beamed. “Now that they let you go, everything is well again, right? Well, come on! We have to be on campus in an hour or so, and you can tell me of your exploits on the way.”

I let her drag me cheerfully along, but my thoughts remained troubled. For one, I did not share Olga’s happy certainty that everything was well again, or even if such a possibility existed. My idea of things going well was not compatible with disappearances of my friends, or with being arrested and questioned for inquiring about their whereabouts.

It was unseasonably warm that day, and we still had time, so we decided to sit down on a park bench — not far from the Palace Bridge, with the view of the river, yellow and red with floating leaves, and Nevsky Prospect and the Palace Square on the other side. St. Isaac’s dome blazed like fire, and Alexander’s Column shone in the sun. It was easy to imagine it as molten gold touched by sunbeams reaching down from heaven. I looked toward Gorokhovaya, and even though I could not see it, I imagined the five-storied building with police and seemingly innocuous clerks and functionaries inside. Really, a city this beautiful had no right to have such a loathsome, shriveled heart. I tasted the bitterness in the air, the metallic under taste of the approaching rain, and felt pensive.

“Well?” Olga said. “Who is he?”

It made no sense to make as if I did not know of whom she spoke. I told her about Jack. I told her about the night at the Crane Club and the horrible Nikolashki, of Wong Jun’s arrest. I downplayed the drama of Jack’s appearance and mentioned only that he helped me escape, never explaining his propensity to fall out of the sky and commit violence against the secret police, who then for some reason treated him as if he were royalty. Really, even without the exams my mind was filled to bursting, and I thought it would be best to not further contemplate these things for a while, not if I hoped to avoid crying in a public place.

“He seems nice,” Olga said. “He does follow you all the time — I think he fancies you. Dasha and Larisa, they both were saying there are a lot of Englishmen in St. Petersburg this year.”

“Indeed,” I whispered. My thoughts tumbled, directionless, unable to reconcile the contradictory elements. The British had just made truce with the Chinese, and the emperor thought the Chinese were spies. And His Imperial Highness was greatly infatuated with all things British, and Jack was greatly infatuated…

“Sasha!” Olga gave me a troubled look. “Are you all right, Sasha? You are… drifting. Are you all right?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not exactly all right. I just feel there is something happening all around us, as if there are heavy stones waiting for us… imagine what a grain of wheat feels like — it sits there, listens to some distant rumbling, and before it knows it, it is ground into flour by some millstones it never knew existed.”

Olga’s eyes had grown as large as those on Byzantine icons. “Such strange things you say,” she whispered, clearly concerned.

I managed a smile and got to my feet. “I’m not trying to frighten you, Olga. I’m warning you — to not be ground up.”

The sky above us changed color — from cornflower blue, it silvered like the side of a fish, and slowly darkened into leaden. We hurried toward the university buildings, looking apprehensively at the sky swelling with imminent rain. “Nothing will be well again,” I whispered to myself; I wasn’t sure if Olga heard.