The White Russian

32

R uzsky stood before Ilusha’s stone one last time. He thought of his brother’s smile and prayed for his happiness. “Rest in peace,” he said, and even as did so, against his best intentions, he found a tear once again rolling down his cheek.

He turned away and walked toward the house. On the veranda, he glanced back one last time and raised his hand, before stepping into the drawing room. “Goodbye,” he whispered. “I’m not sure we will see each other again.”

Inside, Ruzsky composed himself for a moment and then strode on into the hallway. Through a window, he could see Maria and Oleg with the horses.

He glanced up at the banners and balustrades above him, his breath visible on the air even in here. For a last moment, he tried to recapture something of the happier memories of those past summers, but they proved elusive.

He walked out of the front door without looking back.

Oleg saw that his eyes were red, but made no comment. Ruzsky put a foot into one of the stirrups and swung himself up onto his horse. “You’ll look after him, won’t you, Oleg?”

“Always, sir.”

“Perhaps the rest of my family will be down this summer?”

“Perhaps. The Colonel will let me know well in advance, I’m sure. There’s work to be done. You’ve seen that.”

Ruzsky reached down to shake the old man’s hand and he saw that there were tears in his eyes, too. He took hold of Oleg’s shoulder. “They will be down before too long, whatever happens,” Ruzsky said.

“Of course, Master Sandro. As soon as the war ends.”

Ruzsky straightened and nudged the horse forward. “Good luck, Oleg.”

“And to you, sir,” he shouted. “And to your lady friend!”

Ruzsky set the horse down the snow-covered drive. He rode her hard up the hill beside the house and only stopped as he reached the top of the path. He turned for one last look.

Oleg stood on the veranda, a tiny figure against the house’s grand facade. Ruzsky thought he saw the old man raise his hand once and he responded, only to be left wondering if it was just his imagination.

Ruzsky swung back. Maria was looking at him with an intensity that seemed to him to be something like love. She smiled faintly in response to his gaze.

“To a new beginning,” he said, “for both of us. You agree?”

She gazed at her horse’s mane.

Ruzsky fired his horse up the hill with a shout, determined not to look back again. He reached the crest and slowed the horse to a walk on the icy descent, only glancing over his shoulder when he was sure that the house was out of view.

Maria was behind him, deep in thought, her long hair and much of her face concealed in a wide fur hat.

As he headed down the hill, he tried to keep the past at bay. Sandro the protector, Dmitri had always called him. The guilt, when it returned, was like lead in the pit of his stomach.