The Four Winds of Heaven (17 page)

The word “family” reverberated through Sonia's mind, which momentarily froze. Volodia was looking at her across the table, and she thought: I hate him, but I also like him. He has a sense of humor, he is obviously kind and well mannered… but I hate him. He is the cause of Ekaterina's and Shura's and Mishka's discomfort, and because of him they must keep still as mice…

She said, “I know what you mean. I think the same myself. Ossip is brilliant, and our sister Anna is an artist, and our little brother, Gino, has the sweetest disposition I have ever encountered. It is only I who do not shine. But perhaps the world needs us to balance out the geniuses!” Her own eyes sparkled, and met those of her brother, and together they laughed. It felt so good to laugh. The young guest joined the merriment.

When the servant girl removed the main course and Stepan had presented the platter of fruit, Sonia had all but forgotten the widow, and was enjoying the occasion, this meal with the two boys, without the hampering presence of Johanna. Perhaps she would never again be allowed to sit alone at a table with a strange young man and her favorite brother, but even Cinderella had enjoyed the Prince's ball. She said, “I see now why Ossip speaks about you each and every day, Vladimir Nicolaievitch. You are a good friend to him.”

“And may I be a friend to you, Sofia Davidovna?” Volodia asked earnestly.

Sonia blushed. It was odd how many times she had blushed in the course of a single meal. “Any friend of Ossip is my friend,” she replied. “Besides, it was through your effort that that dreadful Krinitsky was removed from Ossip's vicinity. We owe a lot to your loyalty.”

With these words, she remembered her charges in the rooms behind the kitchen. The color drained from her cheeks. She lifted her young chin firmly, and regarded Ossip with coolness. “Please hurry,” she said evenly. “You will both be late for class, and I shall be blamed.”

Volodia stood up, and so did the two Gunzburgs. Sonia walked with the boys to the vestibule, where Stepan produced the fur-lined coats in which the two students had arrived. At the door, Ossip kissed his sister and Volodia Tagantsev took her hand and said, warmly, “I had a wonderful luncheon. I shall truly miss you tomorrow, Sofia Davidovna.”

She remained in the hallway, uncertain, for several minutes. Hot flashes pulsed through her body, and she thought for a moment that she was ill. But the flashes were not unpleasant, and she shook off a sensation of fear and doom. Instead, resolute now, she walked to the kitchen and made up a tray of honey cakes. Then she unlocked the door and went to the widow and her children. “You are all winners,” she announced. “Here is your reward.”

Sonia saw the grateful expression on the face of the widow, Ekaterina. Something inside her rebelled at this sight: within a week, this woman and her two children would be sent away to the Pale of Settlement, a place where they had never been before, simply because the head of their family had died, and with him, permission to live in the capital. Sonia thought: Papa will make arrangements, will send her to live among kind people he knows. But her life is here, with friends! Would Volodia Tagantsev understand her own pain for these strangers? she wondered. Would he even know that an injustice had been done? But he was not a Jew! There was no earthly, no Godly way for him to understand this absurd situation, nor her own churned-up emotions concerning it.

When she returned to her room, Anna was there. “Tell me,” the older girl demanded. “What is he like? Ossip's friend, I mean.”

But Sonia shook her head. “I'm not sure,” she replied, bewildered at her own words. “I can't really decide.” She unpinned her brooch and sat down pensively on the edge of her cot. Anna put down her paint brush and looked at her, and flecks of gold shone in her brown eyes.

“We all meet someone like that,” she commented gently. She herself was thinking of someone blond with green eyes. But her sister did not understand, and merely continued to peer dreamily into space, her small, girlish mouth slightly ajar.

I
t was
a bitter cold winter morning when David announced that Aron Berson, the banker, was sending someone over with papers for him to examine. Ossip had already left for school, and Sonia and Gino were in the lesson room, awaiting Johanna, who was lingering over a final cup of cocoa in her bed. Only Mathilde, huddled in her ermine-lined silk morning gown, saw Anna's face color deeply at her father's words. A slight frown appeared between Mathilde's brows. “That dreadful family,” she said in spite of herself.

“There is nothing wrong with Ivan Aronovitch,” Anna countered abruptly.

“He is a pleasant youth, to be sure,” Mathilde said. She felt vaguely disquieted. “But one cannot separate a man from his origins. He resides in that tainted house, with his scatterbrained mother and his wanton sisters. We cannot be certain how this has affected him.”

Anna merely bit her lip. But after Stepan carried away the remainder of the morning dishes, she did not go to her room. Instead, when her father proceeded to his study and her mother to her boudoir, she went into the drawing room and stood for a while before the long gilt mirror. Her bosom was ample, but her waist was slender, cinched by a belt of copper and rope. She wore a full-length skirt of Latvian design, and a coarse cotton mujik blouse with a multicolored woolen shawl in earth tones to protect her from the chill which penetrated even through the double walls of the house. Her red hair shone, unadorned, coiled over her right ear. But perhaps—no, even surely—Aron Berson would send a messenger from his bank. Ivan was a student, and besides, had he not declared himself uninterested in his father's work? Anna shuddered, and the pinpoints of her nipples quivered. He would have no reason to come.

But moments later, Stepan admitted someone into the vestibule, and Anna heard a gay, robust burst of young laughter. She could not restrain the impulse that propelled her toward that sound. Stepan, holding Ivan's astrakhan cape which bristled with particles of ice and snow, saw his young mistress, her cheeks ablaze, stride awkwardly toward the newcomer. Ivan Berson, his blond hair parted in the center, his frock coat of rumpled broadcloth unbuttoned, almost came to attention. “Anna Davidovna,” he murmured.

She regarded him with a certain irony. “You? On banking business?”

His cheeks reddened. “I am not as impure as you think,” he stated, and then took the briefcase that Stepan held for him. His green eyes looked eagerly around, and gave him confidence. He advanced a few steps, and at once Anna took the lead and left the vestibule. Near the drawing room, she halted. “My father?” she asked.

No one was near them. The young man's hand rose to his cravat, which was loosely tied. He stood over Anna, only barely taller than she. “I came, hoping to see you,” he said. “You see, I am very bold. I hoped that you would be pleased to see me again. I thought—perhaps we could chat, for several minutes. You are not—too busy?”

She shook her head, motioning him to the sofa. She could not sit, herself, and kept her hands pressed nervously together. “I have made you uncomfortable,” Ivan said gently. “I shall leave now, and bring the papers to your father. I was too abrupt, too presumptuous.”

“No,” she said. Her voice was rough because her throat was dry. Finally she took a seat. She became very red, and, examining her nails, murmured, “I wanted you to come, Ivan Aronovitch.”

“I have never paid court to a young lady before,” he told her frankly. “That is not to say I have no women friends. But my friends have all been fellow students, and in our discussion groups the atmosphere is informal, and we are all one, so to speak. So you may find my manners… wanting. I do not wish for you to regard me badly. I felt the need to explain.”

“You have come to—pay court—to me?” Anna asked, her voice nearly inaudible. Tears seared her eyelids suddenly. “No, surely not.”

“I am clumsy, but I needed to see you. I know—what people whisper about my sisters. I cannot help the way they are, any more than I can help my own disinclination for formality. You are a lady, and unaccustomed to this sort of familiarity. Have I shocked you, Anna Davidovna?”

“Yes, you have shocked me,” she replied abruptly. She looked away, her embarrassment overwhelming her. “But not in the way you suppose. I am not a lady, Ivan Aronovitch. Not like my mother, or even my little sister. I was born into the wrong family, and have never felt at ease as a Gunzburg. I always wished that I had been born a peasant, in the heartland of our nation—where no one would notice me, and where I could act as I please. What shocks me is that you would have any desire to see me again, you who live surrounded by brilliant young University women, and pretty sisters. I am an oddity in this family—haven't Kazia and Alia told you that?”

Ivan Berson rose, and began to pace the room. Anna, in her shame, could not bear to look at him. She felt that the entire room had suddenly engulfed her, this room where ladies met for tea and where delicate antiques were placed in tasteful decor, a decor which she detested with all her heart. When the young man stopped, it was in front of her. He said: “Please, allow me to see one of your paintings. Baron David is not in a hurry this morning, for my father told me that he is not expected at the Ministry until later. I shall not depart until you have brought out a canvas, or a sketch—but I must see one.”

Anna was very surprised. “Very well,” she said. She was grateful for the opportunity to leave the room and this young man who made her chest burn and confused her thoughts. She went into her room and looked about. Her eyes rested upon her latest etching, a free-form rendition of her brother Gino seated on the floor by the piano. She took it in her hand, her mind a blur. She did not even catch sight of Johanna, on her way from the lesson room to her mother's boudoir. Anna walked, head bent, into the drawing room, and speechlessly deposited the small portrait in the lap of the young man. “This is unfinished,” she stated. “I am going to add color next—blue glints on the piano surface, brown with gold highlights in my brother's hair, soft shadings of apricot on his cheeks. Gino is very healthy. His eyes will be nutlike, with points of orange and green. I do not know why I chose this one to show you, I've really only just started it.”

Ivan Berson gazed at the picture, then at Anna. His green eyes gleamed. “I shall take you to meet my friends who paint for their living,” he said. “You are as good as I had dreamed. For you see, I have dreamed of you. We were in a forest, hiding from the world, and then—” His hand reached out for hers, and in her total shock, she stepped back with an intake of breath. “Yes,” he said, smiling, “you are a lady. In spite of yourself.”

Anna's brown eyes suddenly filled with tears that spilled over her lashes, and she turned away from Ivan with an abrupt sob. The sketch fell to the floor. Neither of them noticed. Ivan rose, and placed his fingers on her shoulder. Tremors began to shake her entire body, and she cried, “You must go away! You are mocking me, and I shall not bear it. Go back to your student friends and leave me alone, or I shall scream, and Stepan will come.”

But Ivan's fingers tightened on her shoulder, and with force he wheeled her around to face him. She squirmed, turning her head to the right so that her deformity was hidden. She was sobbing convulsively. His hand stroked her shoulder, then moved up to her hair. Softly, he ran caressing fingers through the red coils. She shivered again and again, uncontrollably. He tilted her chin up with his index finger, and her eyes, with their hunted expression, shone their fear at him like those of a deer in flight. He bent down and touched her lips with his, and drew her toward him with a powerful movement of his arm. She could not budge. Stiff, she received his kiss, then gave a small animal cry and parted her lips, responding. He released her then and she stood before him, red and ashamed. “I did not come to mock you,” he said gravely. “And I shall find other opportunities to return.”

Her hand touched her left cheek. “But why?” she whispered.

“If I were a romantic, I might tell you that I was falling in love with you. If I were a peasant, I would merely tell you that I want you. What would you have me say, Anna Davidovna? I like you very much.”

“You are a madman,” she breathed. Then, incongruously, she began to laugh, a high, uncontrolled laugh. She shook her head, turned, and ran out of the drawing room, still laughing. In the hallway she stopped, and touched her lips with wonder. She did not see Johanna watching her from the depths of the corridor. But she heard Stepan's soft knock on David's study, and his announcement that Ivan Aronovitch Berson had arrived. Once more Anna laughed, but this time without hysteria. Her laughter was soft and low and gentle.

S
onia noticed
that in the days preceding the New Year her sister seemed to unbend, to melt her hard resistance to the outer world. Often she would catch Anna with a softness in her eyes, a dreamy look which made her almost beautiful. If Sonia, at thirteen, became aware of this, then David did all the more. David's heart held an ache for his older daughter. But the Baron did not know enough about women to associate this ripening of womanhood in Anna with the quite frequent appearances of Aron Berson's son, who would deliver messages at all hours of the day, sometimes appearing at tea time and remaining with the younger members of the Gunzburg household. “It is strange, we had never seen much of Ivan,” he said one evening to his wife. “Now he is always around, for some reason or other.”

“Yes,” Mathilde said. She was not sure whether she should be glad or angry. A Berson, in her home, was an affront. Yet, if he were truly paying court to Anna, if she could only be sure that his intentions were indeed those of a respectable young man toward the girl of his choice, then she would have to allow it. After all, Anna deserved happiness, and lately she had even consented to taking tea with her Aunt Rosa, another sign of her softening toward the world. Would Anna ever be wooed again? Mathilde, the anxious mother, would worry. But still—a Berson as son-in-law would be dreadful. Her friends would never understand. Or would Anna's marriage restore her to the realm of normalcy in the eyes of people who thought her such an oddity?

“But he has never come calling, as young men do,” she said to Johanna de Mey with a troubled expression. “He merely slips in and out of the house, running errands for his father. Could I be mistaken? Perhaps Ivan wants nothing of Anna?”

The governess smoothed her fine golden pompadour. “Mathilde,” she finally said, “I am afraid that you are simply too naive to realize the truth. Some young men are indeed interested in girls—but not necessarily to wed them. Your Ivan Berson would soil Anna. If I were you, I would stop these visits. They are making the girl hope, where nothing will ensue. He is having fun at her expense. I have—observed them together.”

Mathilde paled. “You have seen them—behave improperly?”

Johanna bit her lower lip and cast her lovely blue eyes upon a speck of dust on the carpet. “They thought they were alone,” she murmured.

Mathilde recoiled, and her features grew slack. “My God,” she moaned. She remembered her father with one of the kitchen maids in Paris one day, when he had thought himself similarly alone. She closed her eyes to the vision. “Not Anna,” she finally stated. There was an element of despair in her voice. Johanna de Mey placed a cool hand upon Mathilde's clenched fingers, and softly stroked them. “I shall speak to Anna myself,” Mathilde said. “David will have to deal with the boy.” Johanna de Mey smiled.

But when she stood before her in the boudoir, Anna did not flinch. She regarded her mother with wide-open eyes, and stood erect. “There is nothing for me to hide,” she said. “Ivan Aronovitch has done absolutely nothing wrong. He is not the sort to come courting. He is not social, nor am I. We understand each other. I am happy with him. I have never been happy before, except when I paint. He is nothing like his stupid, vapid sisters. If he has offended your sense of propriety, Mama, we are both sorry—he will tell you so himself, if you give him the chance. Neither one of us would feel comfortable in a formal courtship.”

“Will he speak for you to your father?” Mathilde demanded.

Anna flushed a deep scarlet. Her eyes blazed. “I would never ask him to,” she said with pride. “Perhaps one day he would marry me, but in the meantime there is much we wish to accomplish. He is still a student. I would never wish for him to be forced into a formal engagement, simply to make a good impression. I could not bear it, myself. I could not stand to have Papa humiliate us both by asking Ivan questions about his intentions. Why should our lives be so important to anybody? We are hurting no one, nor have we done… any unseemly acts.”

“You have seen him alone, unchaperoned.”

“But we still did no harm. He sat with me in the drawing room, but anyone could have walked in.”