The White Russian

“And you saw signs of tension in my father?”

“He spoke of his concern.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked me at breakfast yesterday, or the day before, if I would like to consider going to Sweden, perhaps, or England, until things were calmer. Funds would be made available in London, he said, for as long a stay as I wished for.”

“And what did you reply?”

“I said that I wanted to stay with my husband at this difficult time. And to help look after Michael.”

“Had he suggested you go abroad before?”

“No.”

“Did he give any particular indication as to why he raised the matter then?”

“No. He said we should discuss it again, perhaps tomorrow.”

“Did he mention a deadline? Did he mention this weekend, for example, as a time that concerned him?”

“No.”

“Did he ever talk about Vasilyev with either you or Dmitri?”

“No.”

“Had you ever seen them together before that night at the ballet?”

“No.”

“Did Dmitri mention it? They made… odd companions.”

“Your father was a member of the government, Sandro. Even Dmitri understands that it requires one to deal with a wider circle than the Guards mess.”

Ruzsky took out a cigarette and tapped it against the silver case before putting it into his mouth and lighting it. He offered the case to Ingrid, but she declined.

“Will there be a revolution?” she asked.

“Few seem to doubt it.”

“When he is sober, Dmitri says many of the soldiers would relish killing their officers.”

“Not if they’re hanged for it.”

Ingrid leaned forward. “A German in Millio

“We should all fear the mob.”

“It is so long since I have seen someone smile. In the street, I mean.”

“They never have in the winter.”

It was an evasive response, and they both knew it. Ruzsky saw the fear in her eyes now. And he realized that she had long since stopped looking to Dmitri for protection.

Ruzsky stood. He failed to find either vodka or wine in the kitchen, so opened the hatch into the cellar. It was dark, but he was able, so long as he moved cautiously, to find his way. He located a bottle on the rack and picked it up.

Back in the kitchen he saw that it was French champagne. He looked at Ingrid. “It hardly seems appropriate, but…”

Ingrid watched as he went to get two glasses from the cupboard and opened the bottle. “I was never an expert on vintages,” he said. “Father started to explain, but gave up on me.”

“I’m glad you reached some kind of understanding, Sandro.”

Ruzsky sat down. He lifted his glass. “To the future.”

Ingrid raised her own and looked at him warily across its brim.

They drank. The temperature in the cellar had ensured that the champagne was chilled.

“Michael asked me tonight why your father had an accident.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said that I did not know, but that you would find out.”

Ruzsky contemplated his champagne for a moment, before downing it. He refilled both glasses.

“Would you ever leave the city, Sandro?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It is just that your father was someone whose opinion I trusted.”

“And his question frightened you?”

She looked at him, seeking reassurance. “Was that foolish?”

“No.”

“Does it frighten you, too?”

Ruzsky looked out of the low kitchen window to the darkness of the garden. “It is hard to turn your back,” he said.

“On a life,” she answered. “Of course.”

And on a love, he thought, though he did not say it.

Ingrid put her hand over his again. Ruzsky felt drunk. He realized he hadn’t eaten since that morning. It already seemed a lifetime away. He turned his palm upward, so that their fingers interlocked.

“We’ll be all right,” Ruzsky said, looking into her eyes.

“I hope so.”

Gently, Ingrid withdrew her hand. They drained their glasses slowly and in silence. Ingrid stood. “I… will see you tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Good night, Sandro.”

“I have a favor to ask,” he said. “I need a day, perhaps two. I need to know that Michael is going to be safe.”

“Just tell me what you wish me to do.”

“There is a man outside. I… I am being watched now. I ca

“Where do you wish us to go?”

“The Hôtel de l’Europe, perhaps. Anywhere but here. Not tonight, but in the morning. So far as I can tell, only one of them is following me, and he will not wish to risk losing sight of his target. If you hide some spare clothes beneath your coat and do not return, it will take them some time to locate you.”

“Of course, Sandro.”

Ingrid looked at him with sad, compassionate eyes.

“Good night,” he said.

Ruzsky did not watch her go, but he listened to her progress through the house.

He refilled his champagne glass and lit another cigarette.

Five minutes later, Ruzsky climbed the stairs from the kitchen. The desk lamp was still on in the study and he switched it off. He had intended not to linger, but that proved impossible. He sat down in his father’s chair. The air was still thick with the pungent aroma of the cleaning fluid he had used to scrub the rug clean.

He sat still.

He thought of his brother in the apartment off Sadovaya Ulitsa, and the comfort that she must offer.

He wondered what his father would do in his circumstances, and realized, with trepidation, that the answer lay in that small patch of scrubbed carpet. Though he had often fought against his father’s certainties, they were many times more attractive than the vacuum he was faced with now.

The house was quiet.

Ruzsky stood and moved through the shadows to the telephone in the hallway. He examined it for a moment, before picking up and dialing Maria’s number. Once again, the bell at the other end rang and rang, but there was no answer.

He replaced the receiver and headed upstairs. He halted on the landing outside his parents’ bedroom. On a small table beside their bed stood a vase of fresh yellow carnations.

Ruzsky walked through to his father’s dressing room and opened the cupboards to the rows and rows of suits, morning suits, full-dress uniforms, frock coats, mess jackets, and tunics. At the bottom of the cabinet was a line of field boots, handmade walking shoes, dress shoes, and dancing shoes three-deep. He took out one of his father’s dress uniforms and held it up to the moonlight. It had been made by Nordenshtrem, the country’s most prestigious military tailor.

He replaced the jacket, shut the cupboard, and moved to the window.

The sled still stood in the shadows.

Ruzsky looked up and down the street.

He stepped back again, returned to the landing, and made his way to the top of the house. He found sheets and blankets, checked that Michael was sleeping, bent down to kiss his soft head, and then lay down on the floor beside him.

The shouts at first appeared distant, but the sound of breaking glass in the street propelled Ruzsky from his sleep. Michael was sitting up in bed.

The shouts suddenly appeared much closer.

Ruzsky rolled onto his feet and put on his trousers. “It’s all right,” he told his son as he picked up his revolver.

He clambered down the stairs, checking again that there was ammunition in the chamber.

He reached the first floor and his father’s bedroom.

There was the sound of another window breaking.

Ruzsky looked out. “Jew lover!” one man shouted, though none of them could have seen him in the window.

There were about twenty of them in all, a ragtag collection of Black Hundred thugs. One or two carried ba