The White Russian

“A man stepped out. He wore a black suit and a fedora-a dark shadow on a bright day. I saw the bomb leave his hand and then there was complete silence. I knew something terrible was about to happen. We had heard of assassinations, of course, but never here, never in Yalta.

“The taste of my father’s flesh and the sight of it on the front of my white dress; the smell; these things have stayed with me every moment of my life.

“Nobody screamed. It was still such a perfect day. Our driver stopped and his assistant, Kemtsov, stood up. He had blood on his face, too, and pieces of flesh clung to his dark suit and hat. I saw the shock on his face. He climbed down from the carriage. He walked slowly and I think he called out. But there was no answer.

“The man in the fedora was no longer there. The cicadas screeched. The sun shone. It seemed to take an age for Kemtsov to reach my parents’ carriage.

“I did not want to call to him.

“I stood up and squinted at the sun. I stepped down onto the dusty road and stumbled; I could not feel my legs. When my balance returned, I walked slowly to where Kemtsov stood.”

Maria’s face was as still as a statue.

“Kitty was alive. My father’s great body had shielded her. She didn’t have a scratch on her, but I knew from the expression on her face that we had lost her. She held my brother’s hand. She, too, had been dressed in white.

“There was a tiny breeze. I remember a strand of hair blowing across her face.

“Kemtsov fainted, but we did not help him. I held Kitty’s hand and we stared into each other’s eyes. It was as if the world around us had ceased to exist.” Maria tipped her head to one side. “And it was strange, because, then, I could not hear anything.”

Maria stared at the wall. Her face was wet with tears. Ruzsky enfolded her in his arms.

She gripped him tightly.

“It’s all right,” he whispered.

Her fingers dug deep into his back. “No,” she whispered. “It’s not all right. It will never be all right.”

Ruzsky held her until the convulsions ceased and her breathing slowed. He released her and she tried to compose herself, wiping the tears from her cheeks and removing the hair from her eyes.

“Michael Borodin. Michael Borodin. Such an ordinary name,” she said, as if in a trance. “I was at the piano when my uncle first mentioned his name. It was in the big hall of his house. The window was open and the evening was cool. The police have no doubts, he said, but the man has fled. They would put out an All Russias bulletin, but I knew even then that it would be up to me to find him.”

They were silent. Ruzsky could hear her breathing.

“And you did?”

“It has not been easy.”

“You infiltrated the group.”

Maria did not answer.

“You infiltrated the group alone, or at Vasilyev’s urging?”

“Alone.”

“You have never been his agent?”

“The suggestion is obscene.”

“But you did not kill them.” It was a statement, shielding a question. He hoped merely that she would confirm it.

She slowly shook her head. “For many years, I had lived for their deaths,” she said wearily. “But no, I could not kill them…”

“Does Dmitri know about this?”

“No!” She shook her head. “He knows nothing.”

Ruzsky looked out at the glow of the gas lamps in the street. He thought of Ella’s pretty face on the ice, then of the knife in Olga’s eye, then of Maria risking her life to push him away from the Cossack’s thundering hooves. And he knew that whatever she had done, his love for her was as fundamental and unyielding as his love for his son. He was bound to her.

“What shall we do?” he asked.

Maria stared at the floor. His heart ached for her.

“If I have found out the truth, then so will they. And when they do, they will kill you.”

“Yes.”

“Borodin still lives. Why have you not already-”

“We have tried, but he is unpredictable and suspicious. There was a meeting last night, and he was supposed to arrive with Olga, but he never came.”

“But you are certain he will be at the Kresty Crossing?”

Ruzsky saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“I will help you,” he said.

“No.”

“I will do anything you ask of me.”

“You are your father’s son. You are the chief investigator, and you believe in the old certainties, the old Russia. You could never be an accomplice to murder.”

Ruzsky felt a knot in his stomach. He was desperate to deflect her. “They must suspect you.”

“How could they? I was no more than a girl at the time of my parents’ death. Soon after, I fled the unhappiness of my uncle’s house and took another name. For all that anyone knows the young Maria Bulyatina might as well have been blown apart in that carriage.”

“Borodin will kill you. He must suspect-”

“But he does not. You have seen how he is with me.”

“And you will risk everything for this final act of revenge?”

“What is it that I risk, Sandro? What is it that I have?”

He smarted at her rebuke. “I would do-”

“It is too, too late. It was too late a long time ago.”

“So you came to Petrovo to say goodbye?”

Maria did not answer.

“If I had not been married. If I had not turned away…”

“It was already too late for me, even then.”

Ruzsky pulled her gently toward him until her head rested upon his shoulder, her legs entwined with his. He lifted her face and held it as the tears rolled down her cheeks. “What can I do?” he asked.

Maria did not answer. He cradled her head upon his shoulder and rocked her as she cried. “It will be all right,” he whispered, but he knew that she did not believe him, and he wasn’t sure he believed himself.

He was tortured by the image of Borodin covered in the young man’s blood on that night at the factory, and of Maria bending before him to clean it from his clothes.

Could she really defeat this man?

“This will consume you,” he whispered.

“Sandro… This is my fate. It has chosen me, but it is also the one I have chosen.”

“This man has dragged you into his world. He will extinguish all the light your family once created. Is this what your father would have wished for you?”

“Do not speak of my father.”

“To abandon your sister…”

“Do not speak of them, Sandro.”

“Don’t leave Kitty to her fate.”

“Sandro, I beg you.”

“No, Maria. I beg you.” But he knew he had lost her. Maria’s sacrifice was not wild and hasty, but gentle and considered. This was her fate. The passion they had shared at Petrovo was fueled by the urgency of the condemned. “Please,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“You must let it run its course.”

“I ca

“Nothing can change this, Sandro…”

She reached for him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her cheeks pressed to his. They touched each other with urgent desperation. Ruzsky kissed her cheeks and forehead and nose and eyes.

“Sandro,” she whispered. “My Sandro. I’m so sorry.”

Ruzsky crushed her to him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I would do anything for you, anything except this.”

Later, they stood and stared at each other in the darkness of the hallway.

Ruzsky knew he must leave, but could not. “I will try to stop you,” he said.

“Then we may both pay a terrible price.”

“For my father’s sake, for the sake of all that he stood for, I ca

Ruzsky could not take his eyes off her. He was hardly able to breathe.

“Goodbye, Sandro.”

Ruzsky walked out into the stairwell.

He faced her. He could not bring himself to say goodbye.

Slowly, and without taking her eyes from his, Maria Bulyatina shut the door.