The Bronze Horseman (13 page)

Lowering his voice, he said, “In America we have a custom. When you’re given presents for your birthday, you’re supposed to open them and say thank you.”

Tatiana nervously looked down at the present. “Thank you.” Gifts were not something she was used to. Wrapped gifts? Unheard of, even when they came wrapped only in plain brown paper.

“No. Open first. Then say thank you.”

She smiled. “What do I do? Do I take the paper off?”

“Yes. You
tear
it off.”

“And then what?”

“And then you throw it away.”

“The whole present or just the paper?”

Slowly he said, “Just the paper.”

“But you wrapped it so nicely. Why would I throw it away?”

“It’s just paper.”

“If it’s just paper, why did you wrap it?”

“Will you please open my present?” said Alexander.

Eagerly Tatiana tore open the paper. Inside were three books—one hefty hardcover collection by Aleksandr Pushkin called
The Bronze Horseman and Other Poems,
and two smaller books, one by a man she’d never heard of, named John Stuart Mill; the book was called
On Liberty.
It was in English. The last one was an English-Russian dictionary.

“
English
-Russian?” Tatiana said, smiling. “It’s less helpful than you might think. I speak no English. Was this yours from when you came here?”

“Yes,” he said. “And without it you won’t be able to read Mill.”

“Thank you so much for all of them,” she said.

“The
Bronze Horseman
book was my mother’s,” said Alexander. “She gave it to me a few weeks before they came for her.”

Tatiana didn’t know what to say. “I love Pushkin.” Very quietly.

“I thought you might. All Russians do.”

“Do you know what the poet Maikov wrote about Pushkin?”

“No,” Alexander said.

Flustered by his eyes, Tatiana tried to remember the lines. “He said… let’s see…
His sounds do not seem made in this world’s fashion… as if pervaded with his deathless leaven… All earthly stuff—emotions, anguish, passion—had been transmuted to the stuff of heaven.
”

“All earthly stuff—emotions, anguish, passion—had been transmuted to the stuff of heaven,” Alexander repeated.

Tatiana turned red and looked down the street. Where was that tram? “Have you ever read Pushkin yourself?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“Yes, I have read Pushkin myself,” Alexander replied, taking the wrapping paper out of her hands and throwing it away. “ ‘The Bronze Horseman’ is my favorite poem.”

“Mine, too!” echoed Tatiana, looking up at him wondrously.
“There was a time, our memories keep its horrors fresh and near us, of this a tale now suffer me, to tell before you gentle readers, a grievous story it will be.”

“Tania, you quote from Pushkin like a true Russian.”

“I
am
a true Russian.”

Their tram arrived.

At the Russian Museum, Alexander asked, “Would you like to walk a bit?”

Tatiana couldn’t say no even if she wanted to.

Even
if
she wanted to.

They walked toward the Field of Mars.

“Do you ever work?” she asked him. “Dimitri is off on missions in Karelia—don’t
you
need to do something?”

“Yes, I stay behind,” Alexander said with a grin, “and teach the rest of the soldiers how to play poker.”

“Poker?”

“It’s an American card game. Someday maybe I’ll teach you how to play. Also, I’ve been deputized as the officer in charge of all recruitment and training of the People’s Volunteer Army. I’m on duty from seven until six. I do sentry duty every other evening from ten to midnight.” He paused.

Tatiana knew. That must be when Dasha went to see him.

Alexander quickly continued. “For all this I get my weekends off. I don’t know how long that’s going to last. I suspect not long. I’m here with the Leningrad garrison to protect the city. That’s my post. When we run out of men at the front, that’s when we’ll send me.”

But then we would run out of you, she thought. “Where are we going?”

“To
Letniy Sad
—the Summer Garden. But wait.” Alexander stopped not far from his barracks. Across the street, lining the Field of Mars, were some benches. “Why don’t you sit, and I’ll go and get us some dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, for your birthday. We’ll have a birthday dinner.” He offered to bring her some bread and meat. “Maybe I can even find some caviar.” He smiled. “As a true Russian, Tania, you like caviar, don’t you?”

“Mmm,” she said. “What about matches?” she asked, trying not to sound too teasing, unsure how he would like it. “Aren’t I going to perhaps need some matches?” Remembering the
Voentorg
store.

“If you need to light something, we will light it on the eternal flame in the Field of Mars. We walked past it last Sunday, remember?”

She remembered. “Can’t touch that bold Bolshevik flame,” she said, stepping away. “That’s nearly sacrilegious.”

Alexander laughed. “Sometimes we cook shish kebabs on it on our nights off. Is that sacrilegious? Besides, I thought there was no God.”

Tatiana gazed up at him, but not for long. Was he teasing
her
? “That’s right. There
is
no God.”

“Of course not,” he said. “We
are
in Communist Russia. We’re all atheists.”

Tatiana remembered a joke. “Comrade One says to Comrade Two, ‘How is the potato crop this year?’ Comrade Two replies, ‘Very good, very good. With God’s help the crop will reach all the way to His feet.’ Comrade One says, ‘Comrade! What are you saying? You know the Party says there is no God.’ Comrade Two says, ‘There’s no potatoes either.’ ”

Alexander laughed. “You are so right about the potatoes. There aren’t any. Now, go on,” he said. “Wait on the bench for me. I’ll be right back.”

She walked across the street and sank down onto the bench. She smoothed out her hair, stuck her hand into her canvas bag, caressed the books he had given her, and was awash with—

What was she doing? She was so tired, she wasn’t thinking. Alexander should not be here with her.

He should be here with Dasha. I know that for a fact, Tatiana thought, because if Dasha asks me where I’ve been, I won’t be able to tell her. Standing up, Tatiana began to walk away when she heard Alexander calling her. “Tania!”

He came up, out of breath, carrying two paper bags. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t have to say anything. He saw her face.

“Tania,” Alexander said amiably, “I promise, I will just feed you and send you home. Let me feed you, all right?” Holding the bags in one hand, he placed the other hand on her hair. “It’s for your birthday. Come on.”

She couldn’t go, and she knew it. Did Alexander know it, too? That was even worse. Did he know what a bind she found herself in, what unspeakable flux of feeling and confusion?

They crossed the Field of Mars on their way to the Summer Garden. Down the street the river Neva glowed in the sunlight, though it was nearly nine o’clock in the evening.

The Summer Garden was the wrong place for them.

Alexander and Tatiana couldn’t find an empty bench amid the long paths, the Greek statues, the towering elms, and the intertwined lovers, like tangled rose branches all.

As they walked, her head was lowered.

They finally found a spot near the statue of Saturn. It was not the ideal place for them to sit, Tatiana thought, since Saturn’s mouth was wide open and he was stuffing a child into it with derelict zeal.

Alexander had brought a little vodka and some bologna ham and some white bread. He had also brought a jar of black caviar and a bar of chocolate. Tatiana was quite hungry. Alexander told her to have all the caviar. She protested at first, but not vigorously. After she had eaten more than half, scooping the caviar out with the small spoon he had brought, she handed him the rest. “Please,” she said, “finish it. I insist.”

She had a gulp of vodka straight from the bottle and shuddered involuntarily; she hated vodka but didn’t want him to know what a baby she was. Alexander laughed at her shuddering, taking the bottle from her and having a swig. “Listen, you don’t have to drink it. I brought it to celebrate your birthday. Forgot the glasses, though.”

He was spread out all over the bench and sitting conspicuously close. If she breathed, a part of her would touch a part of him. Tatiana was too overwhelmed to speak, as her intense feelings dropped into the brightly lit well inside her.

“Tania?” Alexander asked gently. “Tania, is the food all right?”

“Yes, fine.” After a small throat clearing, she said, “I mean, it’s very nice, thank you.”

“Do you want some more vodka?”

“No.”

She avoided his smiling eye as best she could when he asked her, “Have you ever had too much vodka?”

“Hmm.” She nodded, still not looking up. “I was two. Gulped down half a liter or something. Had to be taken to the children’s ward of Grechesky Hospital.”

“Two? Not since?” His leg accidentally touched hers.

Tatiana blushed. “No, not since.” She moved her leg and changed the subject to the Germans. She heard him sigh, then talk a little about what was happening at the garrison. But when Alexander was the only one talking, Tatiana was able to gaze at him, her eyes roaming around his face. She noticed his dark stubble, and she wanted to ask him if he was
ever
clean-shaven but decided it was too forward and didn’t. The stubble was most pronounced around his mouth, where the black frame of the facial hair made his lips more vivid. She wanted to ask him about his slightly chipped side tooth but didn’t do that either. She wanted to ask him to put away that soft, smiling look in his ice cream eyes.

She wanted to smile back.

“So, Alexander… do you still speak English?”

“Yes, I speak English. I don’t get to practice. I haven’t spoken it since my mother and father—” He broke off.

With a shake of her head, Tatiana said, “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I only wanted to know if you knew any words you could teach me in English.”

Alexander’s eyes gleamed so brightly that Tatiana felt as if all the blood in her body had rushed to her cheeks. “Tania, what words,” he asked slowly, “would you like me to teach you in English?”

She couldn’t answer him, afraid she would stammer. “I don’t know,” she finally managed. “How about
vodka
?”

“Oh, well, that’s easy,” he said. “It’s
vodka
. “ And laughed.

Alexander had a good laugh. A sincere, chortling, deep, male laugh, starting in his chest and infectiously ending in hers. Picking up the vodka bottle, he unscrewed the cap. “What should our toast be to?” he asked, raising the bottle. “It’s your birthday—we will drink to you. Here’s to next year’s birthday.
Salut.
I hope it’s a good one.”

“Thank you. I’ll drink a sip to that,” she said, taking the bottle from him. “I like to celebrate my birthday with Pasha by my side.”

Not responding to her comment, Alexander put the vodka away, looking at Saturn. “Another statue would have been better, don’t you agree?” he asked. “My food is getting stuck in my throat, watching Saturn devour one of his own children whole.”

“Where else would you have liked to sit?” asked Tatiana, sucking on a small piece of chocolate.

“I don’t know. Maybe near Mark Antony over there.” He looked around. “You think there is a statue of Aphro—”

“Can we go?” Tatiana said, suddenly rising. “I need to walk off all this food.” What was she doing here?

But as they strolled out of the park and to the river, Tatiana wanted to ask if he was ever called something other than Alexander. It was an inappropriate question, and she didn’t ask. A walk along the granite embankment on a vanishing evening would just have to be good enough. She could not also ask what endearing, affectionate name Alexander liked to be called by.

“Do you want to sit?” Alexander asked after a while.

“I’m fine,” Tatiana replied. “Unless you want to.”

“Yes, let’s sit.”

They sat on one of the benches overlooking the Neva. Across the river was the golden spire of Peter and Paul’s Cathedral. Alexander took up nearly half the seat, his long legs spread apart, his arms draped on the back of the bench. Tatiana gingerly perched down, careful not to let her leg touch his.

Alexander had a casual, unconcerned ease about himself. He moved, sat, rested, and draped as if he were completely unaware of the effect he was having on a timorous girl of barely seventeen. All his confident limbs projected a sanguine belief in his own place in the universe. This was all given to me, he seemed to say. My body, my face, my height, my strength. I did not ask for it, I did not make it, I did not build it. I did not fight for it. This is a gift, for which I say my daily thanks as I wash and comb my hair, a gift I do not abuse or think of again as I go through my day. I am not proud of it, nor am I humbled by it. It does not make me arrogant or vain, but neither does it make me falsely modest or meek.

I know what I am,
Alexander said with every movement of his body.

Tatiana had forgotten to breathe. Taking a breath now, she turned to the Neva.

“I love looking at this river,” Alexander said quietly. “Especially during the white nights. We have nothing like this in America, you know.”

“Maybe in Alaska?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But this—the river gleaming, the city around its banks, the sun setting behind Leningrad University on the left, and rising in front of us on Peter and Paul’s…” Shaking his head, he stopped talking. They sat silently.

“How did Pushkin put it in ‘The Bronze Horseman’?” Alexander asked her.
“And rather than let darkness smother… the lustrous heaven’s golden light…”
He broke off. “I can’t remember the rest.”

Tatiana knew “The Bronze Horseman” practically by heart. She continued for him,
“One twilight glow speeds on the other… to grant but half an hour to night.”

Alexander turned his head to look at Tatiana, who continued to look at the river.

“Tania… where did you get all those freckles?” he asked softly.