Russian Winter (39 page)

I can’t look at them ever again.

I’ll leave and never come back.

They find you and break your legs.

I’m leaving this place, for good.

Impossible. How does one do that? How does one escape?

They break your legs. And then what will you do, no money, and you can’t even dance…

Nina looks down at the bracelet and earrings and decides. She takes them, drops them into her purse.

Rushing out of the building, she feels as if she is in a movie or a dream, not her real life. She walks the streets in a daze, past the bored-looking troops stationed at the intersection, passively blowing their whistles long and loud, past the vendors of ice cream and vodka and round watermelons, past the old woman with the scale where people pay to weigh themselves—and it seems an abomination that the world can continue on like this, so easily, when these awful other things have occurred.

As if to prove her point, walking toward her is Serge. Of all the people in the world…Nina hasn’t seen him since Polina’s funeral, where he stood far back, perfectly still, head slightly bowed yet somehow still proud, a long face but not a tear in his eye. He wears his usual stern expression now, though he looks somehow less prideful, less sure of himself.

His greeting is unsmiling. “Nina Timofeyevna, good afternoon.”

The possessive way he kissed Vera’s hand…

“I don’t suppose you know she’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?”

When she tells him, his jaw slackens and his face goes pale. For a moment she thinks he might faint. “No, it can’t be. How could it be?”

Nina hears herself telling him “birth” and “hemorrhage,” and Serge says, “I…I didn’t even know she was expecting.” He is doing something Nina has never seen anyone do, tugging the skin at the tops of his cheeks, just beneath his eyes, as if to see more clearly. Little upside-down triangles of skin, and his mouth hanging open. He lets go, shakes his head, as if that might help him understand. “It’s been so long since I saw her. We’d grown close, she and I. But
she told me she couldn’t see me anymore.” Pained sadness in his face.

“Well,” Nina says, her voice tight, “it seems she took up with someone else.”

Serge squints at her. “Oh.” A small, sharp nod of understanding. “I should have known, when I saw them together over the summer. You weren’t there. You—”

“My mother was ill. I had to go to her.” As if it were her fault, as if Vera could ever have loved Serge. Only now, witnessing Serge’s quick nod of comprehension, and his eyes narrowed, calculating, does it occur to Nina that Vera must have said that on purpose—about Mother being ill—in order to get Nina out of the picture. So that she could be alone with Viktor.

“I saw it with my own eyes,” he says, his jaw flexing angrily, “but I just thought—I suppose I just didn’t want to believe it. The bastard. I’m sorry, Nina. And now she’s dead.”

“She’s dead,” Nina repeats, to convince herself, but all she sounds is furious.

“Bastard,” Serge says. “His fault.” A tight, angry look, shaking his head at himself. “I should have known. He was so affectionate with her there at the dacha, it was obvious, and still I didn’t—Because the way he acted, he just didn’t seem to be…hiding anything.”

And that’s not all he’s hiding
. Spiteful thought. For a split second, Nina thinks she might say it aloud. Because all she feels is spite. Madame, behind the flimsy plywood door…Even though she stops herself, Nina supposes it is already too late, that she has said it, already, in so many words. That she is saying it right now, with her fury.

Serge’s eyebrows rise just the slightest bit, as if reading her thoughts, and Nina feels immediately ill. Already it seems wrong, an accident. As soon as Serge has hurried away, she turns into an alley and retches, still shaking as she wipes her mouth on her sleeve.

W
HEN SHE SAID,
“It’s good to see you,” he had to smile. Grigori wanted to touch her, to at least shake her hand, but she seemed somehow nervous—or perhaps simply excited, at what she had to show him. She made sure there was a good foot of space between her body and his as she took the faxed page from her desk and held it out to him. “Does this look like the right thing to you?”

“Let’s see. The columns say ‘date,’ ‘items,’ ‘price,’ and ‘buyer.’”

“Sounds right.”

He began with the top entry. “Date, June 7, 1882.” Looking up, he explained, “That would be the prerevolutionary Russian Orthodox calendar. Twelve days behind ours…” He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous, and continued. “Bracelet, five beads, each with insect specimen and 56 zolotnik triple-twist gold frame.”

“That’s it,” Drew cut in. “That’s got to be it.”

As he read the price aloud, he realized his heart was pounding. “Next it says, ‘Amber drop earrings, two beads, each with insect specimen, and 56 zolotnik triple-twist gold frame.’”

“That’s right too.” A flush had come into Drew’s cheeks.

“‘Amber inlaid brooch, 56 zolotnik triple twist gold frame…’ Hmmm. ‘56 zolotnik triple-twist hairpin with small amber cabochon.’”

Drew leaned closer to him. “Is there a necklace there, too?”

Grigori ran his finger down the column, searching. “Ah, here. ‘Amber pendant, large bead with spider specimen, in 56 zolotnik triple-twist frame.’” He took a deep breath, his eyes continuing down to the bottom of the final column. Aloud, and with surprise, he read, “Buyer: Avrim Shlomovich Gershtein of Marosejka Street, Moscow.” He took a step back, as if there were more there, to be read more carefully. “Huh.”

Drew was looking at him. “Avrim Shlomov…?”

“Gershtein. It’s the last name of Viktor Elsin’s close friend. The composer in the photograph I showed you.” His mind was racing now. “These people could be his ancestors.” Again he heard himself say, “Huh.”

Drew quickly went back to her desk and was rummaging through some folders, while Grigori asked himself what this page might mean. Viktor Elsin’s friend…

“Here,” Drew said, “is this him?” She held out the photograph Grigori had lent her; in the supplemental brochure that had been mailed to him, Gershtein and his wife had been cropped out of the picture, so that the brochure showed just Nina Revskaya and Viktor Elsin. Pointing at the original in her hand, Drew said, “This is him, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, the amber must have been something
he
owned, that had been passed down to him from his parents or relatives. These pieces were his. Or became his at some point.”

Grigori nodded, but it was an automatic movement rather than one of comprehension. “Yes, he must have given them—or sold them—to Viktor Elsin. Probably when he was arrested.” He thought for a moment. “Gershtein must have given them to Elsin for safekeeping before he went off to prison, and then Elsin gave them to Nina Revskaya, and she took two of the pieces with her when she left Russia.”

Drew gave a small nod. “But why would she take only two of them?” She paused. “Maybe Elsin gave two of the pieces to his wife and the pendant to someone else.”

“But who else?”

“The person whose bag you have. The person who had those letters.”

Grigori realized that she thought he knew more than he claimed
to. Well, of course. He had not told her that he did not know who, precisely, his “relative” was. “But you see,” he tried to explain, “I have reason to believe that the pocketbook belonged to Nina Revskaya. I’m quite sure it did.”

Wrinkling her brow, Drew asked, “But couldn’t it have belonged to someone else? And the letters, too.”

Just like Big Ears, incredible…Grigori felt a surge of impatience, while Drew, oddly calm, said, “I think we need to take one step at a time. Starting with what we know for certain. And that’s the fact that these jewels originally belonged to the Gershtein family.” She looked back at the photograph Grigori had given her. “What would you do if you were this man and owned this set of women’s jewelry that had been passed down to you?”

Grigori said, “Give them to my wife.” He pointed to the beautiful woman next to Gershtein.

Drew said, “Nina Revskaya told me she was an old friend, that they were very close. They were both dancers. Maybe—”

“No, actually,” Grigori corrected her, “Gershtein’s wife wasn’t a dancer. She worked for one of the government offices.” It was one of the few facts about her that he had been able to learn in his research.

Raising her eyebrows, Drew thought for a moment, and then said, “Well, in that case, this wasn’t his wife. She was…” Drew leaned back toward her desk to look at something she had written down on the blotter. “Vera Borodina.”

Questioningly, Grigori repeated the name.

Drew clicked on her computer, and a photograph emerged, as she moved her seat so that Grigori could see the image on the screen, a beautiful woman slouching against a barre in a ballet studio. The woman was indeed the same one in the other photograph. “Her name was Vera Borodina,” Drew said, “according to this archive.”

“But that’s not the right name.” Grigori felt momentarily dizzy. “No, you’re right, this isn’t his wife. This must be…someone else.”

“Vera Borodina.” Drew said it adamantly. She did not appear to see anything confusing about any of this. “Do you think the bag you have might have belonged to her?”

“No, no,” Grigori said gruffly. “No, because then that would mean…” But his mind was not quite working. “I’m sorry. I’m finding this confusing for some reason.”

Drew said, “Maybe Gershtein gave the pendant to Vera Borodina, and the bag you have was her bag, and those letters were written to her. Not to Nina Revskaya.”

Grigori thought back to what Katya had said when she first handed the bag over to him—that his mother had been a ballerina. “But—the poems.” He closed his eyes. “I’m going to have to think about this for a minute.”

“Maybe we should look back at the letters again. To see if they could have been written by Gershtein.” Drew did not look at all upset at the proposition. “And I should call Nina Revskaya, in case by some chance she knows any Gershteins in her husband’s family.” She paused. “But it seems improbable, doesn’t it? Do you think maybe her friend gave them to her? For safekeeping?”

Grigori realized that he was grinding his teeth. “I’m sorry, I need to get some air.”

“Are you all right, Grigori?”

“No. I’m not.” He turned to leave, but not quickly enough to miss the look on Drew’s face, of shock and hurt.

S
HE ARRIVES HOME,
her legs still quaking, to find Madame asleep in her chair, forehead on the table, the loud drunken rheumy snoring Nina has grown used to. Lola sits quietly on Madame’s big thick messy bun, pecking at the tortoiseshell comb.

Sitting there so smug.
Viktor brought them
.
It was supposed to be a surprise
. The meanness in her smile.

Nina wants only to grab her travel case and leave. It is my fate, she tells herself. There is no other way now.

She will take refuge in the Bolshoi, and from there go straight to the car that will take them to the airport. And then…But her hands are shaking, her whole body shaking.
They find you and break your legs.

Surely she can do this, other people have done it. You can do anything you want with sufficient money, sufficient bribes. And your wits about you. She hurries over to the box where she keeps her valuables. Places the emeralds in her earlobes, catches the gold watch around her wrist. Glances over to make sure Madame hasn’t woken. Her fault, that Viktor went back to his old ways. Her fault; she is the one who told him, who turned him against her.

Leave this place. Leave these people.

Into the small pot of cold cream in her makeup case she submerges her wedding brooch and diamond studs. The amber and her little malachite box she tucks into the toes of two thick wool socks, which she adds to her packed valise. Lola watches her quietly, and gives another peck at Madame’s tortoiseshell comb. The one with the tiny diamond flecks…Why, yes, thank you for reminding me. Nina marches over and lifts the comb from Madame’s bun. After all, these might come in handy. Lola gives a squawk. That preposterous survivor. “
S’il vous-plaît!
”

Despite a loud, drunken snore, Madame does not even lift her head. And only then does the thought occur to Nina.

You are NOT to touch my hair!

With sudden clarity, Nina touches that messy bun. Gently she begins to loosen it, carefully pulling apart the sections of grizzled hair. It does not take much searching. Nestled within a knotted clump she finds first one and then another of what she ought to have always known were there.

Soon she has found five stones, one of them quite big. Madame is snoring even more loudly now. Nina takes three of what might be
diamonds, one of them shaped like a tear, another a yellow shade, and tucks them into her brassiere. Security, for later. The other two she leaves on the table for Madame to find. Then she pulls on her coat, grabs her valise and theater case, and hurries to the Bolshoi, where her ride to the airport awaits.

“W
HY DO YOU
ask?” Nina said into the telephone. The receiver felt especially heavy today, the weight directly absorbed by her knuckles.

“Because an amber pendant, bracelet, and earrings of the exact description of the ones in this collection, along with a brooch and hairpin, were originally purchased by Avrim Shlomovich Gershtein in Moscow in 1882.” Drew Brooks sounded different today, her voice almost shaky. “If that is a name in your husband’s ancestry,” she continued, somehow timidly, “it will allow us to be certain that indeed those pieces listed in the archives are those in your possession, and that the pendant is therefore of this same suite.”

Nina felt a horrible humming between her ears.

“Gershtein,” Drew was saying, slowly, as if Nina were impaired. She began to spell out the name.

Had Gersh given them to Viktor, or had Viktor bought them from Gersh? Nina could still picture Madame’s gleeful whispery little smile,
Viktor wanted to hide them in my room
, her feigned surprise at having given up a secret. What if Viktor had been hiding them for Gersh? Not for himself, not for Nina. What if they were from Gersh, for Vera?