The Lost Souls of Angelkov (70 page)

“Stay there, Soso,” Lilya says.

Soso stops, but shows his teeth at Lilya. “Lilyanka,” he says, drawing out the pet name. “Come. It’s me, Soso. We’re in this together, sweetheart. Are we not?”

“No. We’re not.”

“How did you get my pistol?” Soso yells, and Lilya jumps.

“Do you suppose it was that difficult? You always slept like a boar. It was an easy matter to take it out of your coat before I woke you.”

“Lilya,” Soso says again, lowering his voice with something like a chuckle. As if she were a small and clever child.

Lilya cocks the hammer of the Cossack pistol the way she saw Soso do it in his izba. At the sound, so loud in the cold, still air, Soso’s chuckle fades. Lilya knows, by the look on his face, that the pistol is loaded, as he had boasted.

“Do you not believe I’ll shoot?” she says. “I’ve killed before. I’ll do it again, if I have to.” She steps back. “Lyosha, pick up the money.”

Lyosha does as she orders, and then Soso takes another step towards Lilya. Lyosha calls out, “Soso! Stop! It’s true. She’s already …” He glances at his sister, then back at Soso. “You must believe she’ll do it. I’m telling you, Soso, she’ll shoot.”

Something about Lilya’s expression and the confident way she holds the pistol, her thumb steady on the hammer, or perhaps what Lyosha has just said, makes Soso stop.

Grisha still holds his own pistol. Before anyone can anticipate what will happen next, Soso turns and grabs Misha, pulling him from the priest and dragging the boy in front of him.

Misha struggles, kicking backwards, trying to wrench himself free of Soso’s grip. “No!” he shouts. “Let me go!”

At his loud cries, a burly man in a long greatcoat and grey fur hat appears behind the priest, from inside the chapel. His hat has a white star, and the words
Pskov Captain
are embroidered under it. He is followed by a second and then a third man, both as tall and wide as the first, wearing the greatcoats and fur hats of the police. They all hold their own revolvers.

Grisha doesn’t understand.

“Good,” Lilya says. “You’re here.”

“You’re Lilya Petrova?” the captain asks, and when she nods, he adds, “Put down the weapon. And you.” He looks at Grisha. Grisha hesitates for a moment, then carefully sets his pistol on the ground in front of him.

Lilya still holds hers. Her hands remain steady, her face composed.

“Let the boy go,” the captain says, and Soso spits onto the priest’s boots with an expression of disgust as he drops Mikhail’s arms. Mikhail runs to Grisha, who is nearest to him. Grisha pulls Mikhail close, his arms tightly around him.

A sob comes from Misha’s throat. He knows it’s not over yet. He stares at Lilya, and the pistol, but she hasn’t looked at him. Her eyes are fixed on Soso.

“Put the pistol down,” the captain says again.

As Lilya keeps the revolver aimed at Soso, Lyosha slowly holds out one hand to her, palm up. “Sister, what are you doing? Look. It’s Misha. We have him now. Don’t hurt anyone. You’re upset, Lilya. That’s all. Give me the pistol,
and let’s take Misha home. Let’s all go back to Angelkov, to the countess.”

At that, a strange look comes over Lilya’s face, one of sudden clarity, followed by horror. She looks at her hands holding the revolver as if they are someone else’s, and lowers the pistol so that it points towards the ground at her feet. For the first time, she looks at Misha. He’s turned his face against Grisha’s chest, and his hands are over his ears. “Misha,” she says. “I’m sorry,
moya malysh
, my baby, I’m sorry. It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

As Misha lowers his hands, he half smiles at Lilya, a tremulous, trusting smile, and Lilya attempts to smile back at him. Then she says to Lyosha, in a small voice, “I loved her, Lyosha. I always loved her. But she doesn’t want me. I know that now. I saw it, so clearly on her face. Even if I bring back her son, she won’t love me.”

Lyosha doesn’t understand what she’s talking about, but he needs his sister to be calm, to not hurt anyone. She’s still holding the revolver. “I … You know I care about you, Lilya.” He has never used the word
love
, and can’t now.

She blinks and looks at him as though he’s a stranger. “You love Anya now. I didn’t want you to love anyone else. But you do, don’t you, Lyosha? You will love her just as she loves
him
. She loves
him
, not me.”

“Lilya, please,” Lyosha urges, confused.

Suddenly Lilya smiles, the natural smile Lyosha remembers, and relief goes through him. He smiles back at her, nodding encouragingly. “That’s right, Lilya. That’s better. Give it to me.” He takes a step towards her, his hand still out, palm up.

She puts the revolver into his hand. He stoops, setting it on the ground, as Grisha did.

“You said there were four of them,” the captain says.

Lilya shrugs. “There are only two now, Soso and Grisha. Not him,” she says, putting her hand on Lyosha’s arm.

Soso waves his arms in the air. “What’s she talking about?” His voice is loud, indignant. “She’s crazy. You can see she’s crazy. We’ve come to free the countess’s son. We heard he was here, at the monastery. We came to bring him back—”

“You are Iosef Igorovitch, known as Soso,” the man states, and Soso closes his mouth and lowers his arms. “We have spoken to Father Saavich. He corroborated with the woman’s story: that you would be coming for the boy today. That you have threatened him unless he hid the boy these past months.”

Soso looks at Father Saavich. “Bastard. Traitor,” he says, and spits at the priest’s boots again.

“And how were you involved?” the man asks Lilya.

“She wasn’t,” Grisha says. The boy has stopped trembling, and is looking up at him. “She wasn’t involved. It’s as she told you. It was Soso and me. Grigori Sergeyevich Naryshkin. Go to Lilya, Misha,” he says then, and the boy does as he says, but looks over his shoulder at Grisha.

Lilya takes off her cape and wraps it around Misha, holding him against her and kissing his cheeks, his bristly head, his cold ears.

“Give him your
ushanka
, Lyosha,” Grisha says, and Lyosha takes off his hat and sets it on Mikhail’s head.

At the police station on Fedosovoy Prospekt in Pskov, Soso and Grisha are led inside, their hands tied behind their backs. Lilya and Lyosha and Mikhail follow; a report on the discovery of the Mitlovsky child must be filed.

Lilya retains her composure during the laborious writing out of many details. She answers all the questions slowly while sitting with her hands held loosely in her lap.

Lyosha waits with Mikhail in an outer room, the boy still wrapped in Lilya’s cape. He holds the
ushanka
. Someone has found an old pair of felt boots for him.

At one point, Grisha is led past him, and Misha draws a deep, shuddering breath. Lyosha puts his arm around the boy’s shoulders. Grisha stops in front of them and says, “Lyosha. Please. Make sure all the money is given to the countess. With it she can pay her taxes and keep Angelkov for a while longer.” As Lyosha nods, Grisha looks at Misha.

The boy stares up at him. “Grisha?” he whispers, a question in the name.

“Mikhail Konstantinovich,” Grisha says. “I’m sorry. This is not what I wanted to happen to you. Ever.” As the captain and another policeman try to pull him forward, Grisha asks, “Will I be allowed to write a letter?”

“Not now,” the captain says. “Later you will be allowed one communication.”

“I will write to your mother, Mikhail, to explain. Can you tell her I will write to her?”

Misha reaches down the loose front of his robe and pulls out a small leather booklet. He opens it and tears two pages from it, walking towards Grisha.

The captain takes the pages of music, turning them over and frowning.

“It’s her notes to Glinka,” the boy says, “so Grisha can write to my mother.”

The captain nods, and they lead Grisha away.

The captain says he will accompany Lilya and Lyosha and Mikhail back to Angelkov. “I’ll follow by horse,” he tells them in the waiting room. “I must ensure that the boy is returned safely to Countess Mitlovskiya, and present her with the official report.”

Lyosha stands straight, his hand on Misha’s shoulder, and dips his head at the man.

As the captain follows them outside, he tells them to wait while he brings his horse from the stable.

Before Mikhail climbs into the troika, Lilya again hugs and kisses him. She holds him for so long that Lyosha touches her arm. She lets Misha go and turns to her brother. He puts out his hand to help her up. She takes it, but then brings it to her lips and kisses it, laying her cheek against it.

“Come, Lilya. Climb in.”

“Make sure you give the money to the countess as Grisha instructed.”

Lyosha puts his hand inside his jacket. “Here. You take it. You should be the one to give it to her.”

“No. You must do it. I’m not coming with you.”

“You’re not coming back to Angelkov?”

“No. There is only one thing left for me now.”

“What are you talking about? The countess will need you even more now that Misha—”

“No,” she interrupts. “It’s as I said. The countess doesn’t need me anymore. There is no place for me at Angelkov.”

Lyosha studies her face. It is pale, but calm. Resolute. “You know that God loves you, Lilya,” he says.

“No. Not since I did the unforgivable at Grisha’s house.”

“But He is forgiving. He will forgive you.”

“I will devote my life to asking for His forgiveness. Goodbye, Lyosha.”

“Where are you going?”

“To where I can do only good. To Seltocheeva.”

Lyosha frowns. “The convent?”

“They have welcomed me. They await me,” she says.

Lyosha knows she’s too old to be a novice. Besides, they take only members of the nobility into the sisterhood. But what can he say? He understands Lilya well enough to know there is no use in trying to change her mind. It appears she’s already arranged this. He thinks of her, again, in Grisha’s house, with the bloody rifle. He remembers how only a few hours earlier she aimed the pistol at Soso.

“If you change your mind, come back to Angelkov.”

She shakes her head, but her eyes and mouth are soft. “This is part of my repentance, Lyosha. I must be punished. Never again seeing those I truly love will be my greatest grief.” She looks at Misha again. “Goodbye, Mishenka, my darling.”

“Goodbye, Lilya,” Misha says. “Your cape,” he adds, “you must have your cape back.” He starts to take it off.

Lilya puts her hands out to stop him. “Keep warm. Stay warm until you are in your mama’s arms.”

Mikhail and Lyosha watch Lilya walk away. The cold November wind ruffles her skirt and light shawl. Her kerchief is slipping off the back of her head, as it often does, and Lyosha sees the part in her hair.

Her scalp looks vulnerable.

“Goodbye, sister,” he says, although she is already too far away to hear him, and then he climbs into the troika beside Misha.

At Angelkov, Antonina had awoken to a quiet house. When she went downstairs to the kitchen, Raisa and Pavel and Nusha were there. She asked Raisa about Lilya, but Raisa told her she hadn’t seen her. And Grisha? Again, Raisa shook her head.