The Lost Souls of Angelkov (64 page)

She needs to be alone, and away from temptation.

Twenty minutes later, Lilya comes back, bringing a tray.

“I know you said you didn’t want anything, but you’ll feel better if you—” Lilya looks at the clothes scattered on Antonina’s bed. A valise sits on the floor. “What are you doing, Tosya?”

“I’m going away,” Antonina says, pulling a chemise from a drawer.

“Away? What do you mean?”

“Have Lyosha saddle Dunia, and an Arabian for himself.”

“I asked you where you’re going.” Lilya looks at the clothing on the bed. Antonina has chosen oddly: it’s as if she’s taken whatever her hand first touched in the wardrobe. A shawl, a nightdress. A summer bonnet. What is she doing?
“Do you not want some dresses? And some slippers? You haven’t taken—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Antonina interrupts. She sits at her dressing table, looking into the mirror, but to Lilya it doesn’t appear that she sees her own reflection.

Lilya sets down the tray and sits on the purple velvet chair beside Antonina’s. “Tosya,” Lilya says, grasping Antonina’s hand. “Ninochka.” She kisses the back of the hand, and then turns it over and kisses the palm. Her lips are warm, damp.

Antonina shivers.

“I know you are grieving for Mr. Kropotkin,” Lilya says. “I wish I could take away your grief. But there’s no reason for you to leave. You’ll feel better when you eat, and—”

Antonina stands. “Bring my valise downstairs.”

When Antonina and Lyosha arrive at the dacha, there is a light layer of snow on the wooden steps.

Lyosha carries in her valise and the basket of food the countess asked Raisa to pack, then starts a fire with the bit of wood still left by the fireplace. He goes out to split more from the pile of logs behind the dacha, and carries in two armloads, leaving another tall pile on the step. He makes sure there is a full box of kindling near the fireplace.

Watching him, Antonina thinks that Lyosha doesn’t look like his sister at all. His face is open and honest, whereas Lilya’s has grown hard, everything becoming narrower: her eyes, her lips, her pinched nostrils.

“Are you certain you’ll be all right out here by yourself? Do you know how to keep the fire—”

“Thank you, Lyosha. You may go back now. And take
Dunia—I don’t want to worry about her in the cold stable. But please, remember that I don’t want anyone to know where I am. Do you understand?
Anyone
.”

From the look on his sister’s face as she stood on the veranda and watched them leave, Lyosha knows Lilya is very angry at the countess’s refusal to tell her where she was going.

Lyosha is exhausted and sick with worry. He can’t stop thinking of what Lilya did the day before, of having to bury the poor man. But this morning Lilya appeared in control, as if nothing had happened. How could she murder that man—the quiet musician—in cold blood, and be so calm today? And what of the talk of Soso and Mikhail Konstantinovich?

“I’m sorry to ask you to do this, Lyosha,” Antonina says. “But it’s very important that you keep this secret. I know I can trust you.”

“Yes, madam,” Lyosha says. “When shall I return for you?”

“I have food for three or four days.”

Lyosha touches his cap and mounts his horse. Antonina watches him ride away, leading Dunia through the narrow forest path.

Antonina looks around the dacha, remembering the last time she was here, with Grisha. She walks down the hallway to the bedroom. The bedclothes are still jumbled; no one has been here since. She lies down, pressing her face into the cold sheet. It smells faintly of leather and her own scent. She pulls the coverlet over her, and as she does, she finds the embroidered vest Grisha had worn when they were here together. She runs her fingers over the embroidery, telling herself that Grisha had nothing to do with Valentin’s death. He did not. It was Lilya, spreading rumour. Not Grisha. She thinks of the
many kindnesses she’s witnessed from him over the years: to her son, to Lyosha, to so many of the servants. She knows that he doesn’t punish with the knout, as Gleb had. She has heard this from the servants. They were mindful not to let Konstantin know, but she knows. Even Misha knew. He once talked of how he was glad Grisha wasn’t cruel to the stableboys, as the steward he’d seen when visiting another estate had been.

She remembers the way Grisha took her here. Never losing awareness of her injured nose, he had pressed his mouth on hers softly and yet firmly. Valentin held her as though she were a treasured pet, and his one brief kiss … it was as though she was simply tasting something sweet and pleasing, something that would last only briefly on the tongue, like a summer ice. Grisha’s mouth had substance.

She has convinced herself she will never again know Grisha’s mouth, his touch. But at this moment she wants nothing more than to hear his footsteps on the wooden porch steps. She wants him to throw open the door without knocking, to stride through the dacha and hold her tightly, so she can forget, even for an hour, her grief over Mikhail, the sadness surrounding Valentin, her concern about the future of the estate. About her own future. So she can forget about wanting a drink so badly that without it she feels she can’t take another step, another breath. With Grisha she would be able to forget, and live only in the moments when he took possession of her.

She must abandon her foolish thoughts. She goes back to the warm sitting room. From her valise she takes the letter Misha had written on the back of her notes to Glinka, as well as the two extra pages she found in his coat. She has read them all so often that she is almost afraid to unfold them again; they’re creased and fragile. She thinks of all the tests
that have been put in front of her: Konstantin, Grisha, Valentin. The vodka. She has failed them all.

The only thing she hasn’t failed at is being a good mother.

She drops to her knees and, pressing the pages against her chest, prays out loud. “I am confessing to you, Heavenly Father. I have many sins, and I understand that You feel I do not deserve another chance. But I vow to You that I will try. I will try again. Perhaps You believe I don’t deserve to have my son back. I was an unworthy wife. I am an unworthy woman. I accept your punishment of me for those things. But I am not an unworthy mother.”

She sits back on her heels. She is thirsty, her hands shaking more all the time, her stomach cramping as if her time is arriving. She goes to the kitchen and empties the basket of food. There is a length of sausage, a loaf of bread, a jar of pickled cabbage and one of marinated apples, boiled potatoes still in their skins, hard-boiled eggs and bottles of buttermilk. She opens a bottle and puts it to her mouth. She drinks, grimacing at its thick taste. It makes her nauseous.

It is only noon.

Valentin has been dead for less than twenty-four hours.

Grisha had gone to the grave again that morning. He knelt and prayed for his brother. He feels such unrest, as if he should be doing something more.

He doesn’t know which he feels more strongly: sorrow, or guilt, or anger.

He rides to the Bakanev estate to receive the agreed-upon price for the land he has sold back to the prince. The prince was annoyed at the transaction, giving Grisha only half of
what he paid, but Grisha has no choice. His security is now gone, traded for Mikhail’s freedom.

He returns in late afternoon, and goes to the manor’s back door. It’s locked, for the first time. When he knocks, Lilya answers, positioning herself in the entrance.

He asks her about the countess.

“She’s fine,” Lilya tells him.

“I’d like to see her. To see for myself that she’s fine. I wonder what you’ve told her. I don’t trust you.” Grisha pushes past Lilya into the kitchen. Soon he won’t have to worry about her. She’ll leave Angelkov once Mikhail is returned and she gets her share of the money. “Did you tell her about …” It’s difficult for him to say his brother’s name. “Did you tell her anything? About what happened yesterday?”

Lilya looks around to make sure they’re alone. “You can’t see her. Do you have the extra money yet?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It’s growing colder and I don’t know if Misha will be kept warm.”

“Do you think I’m not as worried about him as you?”

“Were you worried when you helped to have him taken?”

Grisha’s jaw is tight. “It’s already growing late. Tomorrow you’ll take me to Soso, and we’ll get Mikhail Konstantinovich back. Go and tell Antonina I wish to speak with her.” He won’t tell her about what will happen tomorrow, just in case something doesn’t go as planned. But he wants—needs—to see that she’s all right.

Lilya refuses. “She’s still asleep.”

“What do you mean, still? It’s late afternoon.”

“You know how she gets,” Lilya says, and mimics lifting a glass to her lips. “I’m not waking her.”

“Tomorrow morning, then, Lilya. I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll go to Soso.”

Lilya shrugs, turning from him.

By five o’clock Antonina is sick to her stomach, and by early evening she’s moaning, clutching her cramping abdomen, alternating between chills and fever, her body slick with sweat. She has already torn everything apart in the kitchen, looking for the bottle of vodka she had shared with Grisha when she was last here. When she finds it—empty—she screams and hurls it at the stove; it shatters. In despair, she drops to her hands and knees. A piece of the glass from the broken bottle pierces her finger. She picks it out, sucking away the blood, then lies on her side on the cold kitchen floor, wanting to weep but unable to.