The White Russian

27

T he train pulled into Mtsensk just before dawn. Ruzsky lay on his bunk, not moving, listening to the hiss of steam and the subdued voices on the platform.

He checked his watch. It was just before six.

The blinds in their compartment had been drawn, but the station lights penetrated the interior sufficiently to allow Ruzsky to see Pavel’s face. The big detective was staring at him.

Ruzsky looked at his watch again. Most station halts lasted ten minutes. Rarely more, never less. They had been standing here for two, so far.

There was a shout from farther down the platform. Ruzsky wondered if Maria would change her mind.

He glanced at his watch once more, then turned, nodded at Pavel, and swung off the bunk. As he emerged into the corridor, Pavel was half a step behind him, as they’d agreed. Ruzsky walked into the toilet, looked back, and saw his partner leaning against the door to prevent anyone leaving. Pavel nodded at him once more.

Ruzsky closed the door and looked at himself in the mirror. Now that he had committed himself, he had second thoughts. He splashed water onto his face.

The soldiers had been swapped in Moscow and this group appeared to be less vigilant. Pavel was convinced they were from the Moscow Okhrana; Ruzsky thought they were a replacement team from Petersburg. Either way, they must have been told that the two of them were bound for the Crimea, and they appeared to be fast asleep.

Ruzsky heard the conductor’s low whistle and he opened the door of the toilet. Pavel was still there and he shrugged as Ruzsky turned the corner. He opened the door, stepped down onto the snow-covered platform, and then shut it again as quietly as he could. He walked swiftly through the drifting snow toward a darkened side entrance to the station.

As soon as he was out of sight, Ruzsky looked back. The train was pulling away and there was no sign of anyone scrambling to get off.

Once it had gone, he stepped out into the dim light. He watched the stationmaster disappearing back into the warmth, leaving the platform deserted. Ruzsky went to the waiting room, then the station entrance, but could see no sign of her. He returned to the center of the platform, glancing one way, then the other. He turned to face the drifting snow, letting it gather on his face.

She had changed her mind and the disappointment was crushing.

Ruzsky glanced around him once more. There was little doubt that he was the only passenger who had disembarked.

The stationmaster caught sight of him through the window. He replaced his hat and came back out into the cold.

“You got off the express?” the man asked. He was assessing Ruzsky carefully, trying to marry his demeanor, which would clearly indicate noble birth, with his tatty overcoat and boots, which did not.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. Are you expecting someone, because there is no one here.”

“I’ll need a good horse.”

“You’re with the lady?”

Ruzsky turned around and saw her emerging from the shadows at the far end of the platform, carrying a single suitcase and shrouded in the swirling snow.

It was two hours before the horses arrived, but when they did, Ruzsky acknowledged that the stationmaster had been right; they were worth the wait.

The road was passable until they reached the start of the pinewoods about fifteen versts from the station. Here, they led their horses through a thick snowdrift as the sun peeked above the horizon amidst the tall, thin pine trees. It was no longer snowing, and the sky was now clear. Their breath hung on the still morning air.

Beyond the snowdrift, the road down to the river was clearer again and they cantered toward it. “It’s hard to believe,” Ruzsky shouted as he led his horse through what was now little more than a stream, “but this is sometimes difficult to pass in summer.”

Ruzsky recalled hanging off the back of the troika, by their luggage, alongside his brothers.

“I can believe it,” she said. Maria took off her hat and shook out her hair. She was smiling, her cheeks flushed. “You look as if you were born in the saddle. I thought you were a city boy.”

“I learned in these woods. Our stable boy taught us all bareback. At one point I wanted to run away and join the circus.”

The road on the far side of the river was steep and winding, but at the top there was a long stretch across some high ground, between peasant fields. Up here, the wind had blown the deep snow off the road and Ruzsky and Maria let the horses go, icy air cutting through their coats and whipping their cheeks, snow flying up into their eyes and mouths. The freedom was exhilarating, and by the time they reached the end they were both out of breath.

“There is an inn not far from here,” Ruzsky said. “We can stop for breakfast.”

“Let’s press on. The horses are fit. We can stop later.”

Ruzsky turned his mare so that they were alongside each other, then, without warning, and without letting go of his own reins, he jumped horses, landing behind her. Her mare started briefly, but Ruzsky had performed the maneuver so expertly that the shock was minimal. He curled one arm around Maria’s waist, his face against her neck, her hair against his cheek.

Maria laughed and leaned back against him.

Ruzsky wedged the reins beneath his knee and used his free hand to brush aside her hair so that he could kiss her. She reached back and laced her fingers in his.

They were moving with the rhythm of the mare’s progress, both at ease in the saddle. The rising sun was a bright orange disk that shimmered through the narrow pines.

Ruzsky listened to the steady thump of the horses hooves in the snow. He began to hum quietly.

“What is it?” she asked him.

“I’ve no idea. Mother used to sing it to us.”

Maria listened to him. He could see that she was smiling.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Not funny, joyful. Memories.”

“Of what?”

She sighed. “Of our summers. Of the azure blue sea and skies bright like joy…”

“Pushkin.”

“So your tutors did not neglect you, Sandro. We had a big white house overlooking the bay, with a long, sloping lawn. My father was the governor and my mother renowned for her beauty and her voice. In the summer, she would sing after dinner in the garden. Kitty and I would listen from the upstairs window when we were supposed to be asleep.”

“Your father was the governor?”

Maria did not reply.

“I didn’t know that.” Ruzsky waited for her to continue and when she did not, he asked: “What do you remember of your mother?”

“Of my mother?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you ask that?”

Ruzsky shrugged. “Piecing together the jigsaw, just as you are.”

Maria thought deeply for a minute or more. “Everything. Every little detail. Every expression, every act of kindness. If I believed in God, perhaps I could believe it was his doing, but I don’t and it wasn’t.”

“How long was your father the governor for?”

“Some time.”

“You were close?”

“Who is it that you were traveling with?” she asked. “Another detective?”

“Yes. My deputy, Pavel.”

“Also the son of a noble family?”

“No. He used to be a constable.”

“What did you tell him?”

“To wait until I got there. We were being followed.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Ruzsky thought back to the other night, when he had arrived at the ballet. “Who invited Vasilyev to that performance? He was with my family.”

“Your father, I imagine.”

“Did Dmitri say so?”

She turned to face him. “Does it matter? I have no idea.”

Ruzsky pulled her closer and gently eased her head back onto his shoulder. “No, it doesn’t matter.”

They were silent again. He thought about how quickly she shied away from a discussion of anything personal, and how rapidly she moved from fragile melancholy to prickly defensiveness.

“How long did you tell Pavel you would be?” she asked.

It was after nightfall by the time they neared Petrovo. Maria was fit and a natural horsewoman, but both she and her horse were tiring. They’d rested and fed themselves and the mares at an inn just after lunchtime, and as it had grown darker, their progress had become slower. Ruzsky had expected to be there by eight, but as they stopped at the crest of the hill he checked his pocket watch to discover that it was past nine.

Her skin was pale in the moonlight.

“Are you all right?” he said, reaching out to touch her arm.

“I’m fine.”

“Only another few minutes. We’ll soon be able to see the lights through the trees.” Ruzsky pressed his heels against his horse’s flanks. The path was gentler now, but there were no lights. To begin with, he thought he must have misjudged the point at which he would be able to see the house, but the farther he went, the more unsettled he grew.

For a terrible moment, he wondered if the house was no longer there, if it had been burned down or destroyed in one of the peasant rebellions, and his father had not known how to tell them.

And then he saw a light and began to make out the shape of it, nestled in the corner of the valley. Of course, on every previous occasion he’d arrived here, a welcome had been prepared, every light on, torches burning around the gardens and along the driveway.