The Summer Guest Read online

  Am I bitter today? Just lucid. It is not a bad way to be, after all. Natasha is angry that she was not invited; Elena is sad and wistful. Masha is sullen and silent. Only Georges is a pleasure to be with, dear Georges, always even-tempered, eager to play for me. He went through all the Mussorgsky pieces again; in a wistful mood myself, I had him play “Une Larme” three times over.

  Time no longer measured by the ticking of the clock but by the memory of the metronome. All the hours he spent learning to play, restored to me now, that I might forget time.

  July 12, 1889

  Anya has been enjoying her role as chief gossip for the guesthouse. The latest: A ceremony is being planned, the priest has been summoned, a rush of preparations—zakuski and small cakes, bottles of wine and vodka. Try to guess, she says, teasing me. What could it be, scarcely a month after Nikolay Pavlovich’s death—not even forty days? she asks insinuatingly.

  I give up, Anya.

  She draws a breath, pauses for dramatic tension, and says, Master Aleksandr is to wed the children’s maid.

  A silence, then she adds, As I thought.

  What did you think, Anya?

  She was never the children’s maid, mistress. They just waited for Mr. Anton to get out of the way so’s they could get married. I couldn’t tell you, the other day when I was ironing, and he came in himself, Mr. Anton that is, but she used to be Mr. Anton’s fiancée, she did, some years ago, so Mr. Mikhail said.

  I sigh. Please don’t gossip, Anya. It’s none of our business. Let’s just wish them well.

  Anya’s words have stayed with me, disquieting, along with an image of a faceless Natalya Aleksandrovna Golden standing undecided between the two brothers, one finger to her invisible lips.

  A small ceremony at John the Baptist’s, I was told, just the family. They went to Nikolay Pavlovich’s grave. Not long thereafter, the newlyweds left with the children and returned to Moscow. I should be happy for them—people I hardly know but who are close to us all the same—yet there seems to be something so terribly desperate and sad about their wedding. Why here, in the shadow of his brother’s death? The same church, the same priest? And deliberately in Anton Pavlovich’s absence?

  Perhaps each of them has his own way of reaffirming life, said Natasha later, when we discussed it. Anton and Ivan go off to the Crimea; Aleksandr finally takes his bride, provides a mother for his boys. At least he’s not running away.

  What do we really know of other people? Who has ever seen my own secret feelings, who might suspect them? How much unspoken love misfires in the dark; how many marry and wait all their lives for a shot that never comes?

  I have seen peasants in love, strolling hand in hand by the river at nightfall, their faces flushed and glowing with their amazement at what has befallen them. They ask no questions, life comes to them. Briefly, they embrace each other, they embrace life—the bounty of a season, a full harvest. There is little else, but for the moment, that is all that matters.

  Elena has been busy on house calls, but she found a moment to sit with Natasha and me this evening. Eventually, our conversation settled on Aleksandr Pavlovich’s recent wedding, as if we had been avoiding it all along yet knew we must speak of it.

  Natasha told us she has been talking to Masha. Masha has known all along about her brother and this Natalya Aleksandrovna! she said angrily. She might have told us sooner. They have been living together since last October. She’s an old family friend, they’ve known her for years, along with her sister. Anton Pavlovich was often with her, often stayed with her. For years! One of his regulars! She called him Anto-chez-vous. And she was Nata-chez-vous long before I was. Literally. Nata-chez-lui, more likely.

  Do you think that is why we weren’t invited? said Elena solemnly.

  Fff! I wouldn’t have gone if we had been. Imagine, what a woman! First one brother, then the next. Playing the children’s maid all that time.

  We were silent for a moment, then I said, Well, it can’t have been easy. Apparently, the parents treat her dreadfully. And what about Aleksandr Pavlovich, then?

  What about him, said Natasha crossly.

  I wished then that I could have given her a warning glance; I tried to arrange my features and look in her direction, but it didn’t seem to help, because she said, What man waits until his brother is out of the way to up and marry his former sweetheart!

  After that, I had to say something: Well, it goes to prove that Anton Pavlovich was absolutely right!

  Right about what?

  I realized I had talked myself into a corner. I would either have to reveal our private conversation about Aleksandr’s dubious interest in Elena or find a way to retreat.

  He told me his brother was quite desperate after his wife’s death.

  Well, obviously! barked Natasha. We don’t need Anton Pavlovich to tell us that. Anto-chez-vous!

  All this time Elena had not said a thing. But now, her voice solemn and resigned, she said, He was a very unhappy man. Men don’t cope well with their feelings, don’t you think? I suppose she was able to offer him some comfort. I wish them well.

  After they had gone, I sat and brooded for some time.

  Could I have lied on Elena’s behalf, told Anton Pavlovich something that wasn’t true but that might become true? Could I have seized that chance for her?

  Now we shall never know. And I suppose if Aleksandr Pavlovich found it so easy to secure a consoling presence almost the moment he was back in Petersburg, he might not have been a suitable husband for Elena after all.

  But only she could have been the final judge of that.

  I have been spending a great deal of time with Tonya and little Ksenia. She has just learned to walk and she tries to follow her mama along the lanes. Falls down, says, Oh-oh! in surprise, then her mama snatches her up. Or she clings to my skirt. Often I hold her, carry her on my hip, to feel her warm fresh body, breathe her milky smell. I keep my other hand on Tonya’s shoulder as we walk, to steady myself, so I don’t trip and drop my precious burden.

  I remember one day before he left for Odessa, I asked Anton Pavlovich if he wanted a family. He cleared his throat several times. Then he said, First I would have to want a wife. Then I’ll see.

  And you do not want a wife?

  Perhaps it is, dear Zinaida Mikhailovna, a matter of a wife wanting me.

  (I know that in Spain, they fight with bulls, and the bullfighter must be a master of stepping elegantly to one side.)

  He continued: I’ve no doubt there are women who are sensitive to my charms.

  There was a pause, as if he were thinking. Then he continued, But they want those charms for themselves, and charms do not make a family. If, somewhere, there is a woman who wants me not for herself but for my sake, our sake, because she knows she will be the best guarantor of my freedom—and her own as well—I expect the day such a woman comes along, then I shall fall in love and have a dozen bambini like Count Tolstoy.

  Elena told me Anton Pavlovich went with her one day to treat a little girl in the village who had typhus. He had such a good manner with little Katyenka, she said. The child was frightened, her little chin all creased and trembling with sobs, and there was Anton Pavlovich telling her his silly crocodile stories, not to frighten her but to make her laugh and see that even crocodiles can be vanquished.

  He will make a fine father someday, Elena added wistfully, as if she wanted him for her own unborn children and knew it was impossible.

  July 20, 1889

  Ivan Pavlovich has returned from the Crimea already, but on his own. And Masha has had a letter from Anton Pavlovich. He is feted wherever he goes; he eats ice cream and draws ladies to him. I imagine they are actresses who dream of being in a play, or writers who hope some writerly dust will rub off his linen suit onto their delicate ink-stained fingers. We all wonder why Anton Pavlovich wanted to go to such an upstart of a place as Yalta when he could have gone with Suvorin to Abbazia or Biarritz, but he has written to Masha that he misses Luka, t
hat he sits on the waterfront and wishes he were by the river Psyol. He writes that a pealing sound reminds him of Natasha’s laugh! What does this mean, then, to appreciate a place only when you are far from it? He was so eager to be gone, to put our dry, mournful springtime behind him, to flee toward lights and women and ice cream—and now he claims to miss our Luka?

  The more one knows him, the less one understands him.

  Or perhaps it is an emotion I cannot understand, as I have always been happiest at Luka and have rarely known what it is to be torn by nostalgia for a place or time. To be dissatisfied in the present moment—what a torment that must be, constantly pursuing one with doubt and disappointment. I don’t know whether to pity him or not, he says other very kind things about us in his letter to Masha—says that the murmur of waves reminds him of the good doctor’s singing. It’s true, when Elena is of a mind to sing . . . He also asks where his eldest brother has gone; he will not know yet about Aleksandr’s marriage.

  The others play cards; it has been raining. I listen and wish I could join them. I used to love our games of vint. I would have played more often had I known. Pointless, wistful regret; now I suffer from other forms of nostalgia. I listen to Natasha’s peals of laughter and am glad I am not in Yalta.

  July 30, 1889

  How long the days seem.

  I have said that to Mama, and Elena, and Natasha, and Georges, and now to this page. Perhaps it will break whatever spell is keeping me bound to the slowness of the hours.

  Natasha has been reading to me, and Mama has had visits. For once I joined the company, although I usually don’t, they fuss over me so.

  Nothing seems to help.

  It’s as if Anton Pavlovich entrusted me with his wretched ennui when he left for the Crimea. I can just hear him: Look after it well! Don’t forget, it needs watering three times a day, and the third time add a splash of Grigory Petrovich’s poteen.

  I’m laughing in spite of myself.

  Because I’ve brought him back for a brief instant.

  I suppose I could do that, write him into my life while he is gone, imagine the conversations we have had or might have, and during the time it takes to write them, at least he would be back here with me.

  But I fear I’ve become too eager for his company—how will I manage when he is gone again for the winter? Perhaps for good?

  If only I could reread this journal on my own, but that is the cruel irony of my affliction. Although I believe the mere fact of writing it all down does help my memory of it.

  Or if I could live long enough to have Ksenia read it to me herself—she will be a smart child, with such clever parents—how old will she need to be? Five? Eight?

  I don’t think I shall have that long. My headaches are nearly constant now. Only distraction seems to relieve them at times. Good conversation, flowing ink, Georges at the piano.

  How dark the room seems when I put down my pen.

  Words are like spots of light, flickering candles.

  August 12, 1889

  It is so good to be back at Luka, Zinaida Mikhailovna. I had to go away to realize what bliss it is to be here. The river, the crayfish, the clean silence of birds and frogs and lonely dogs. All that chattering of women, the fashionable set in Yalta—it distracts you for a day or two, it’s exciting and new and flattering, then it drains you, dissipates you. Here I feel I can work again. It’s as if the season changed during my absence. I know this is still summer, but it’s a different summer, there’s a restful coolness to the morning, and the longer nights are good for writing: peaceful August.

  We were talking on the veranda before dinner. He had arrived that morning, dusty and hot from the journey, and it was indeed as if we were starting the summer all over again, as if the sadness and restlessness of the earlier months had at last been buried and life could resume. He was full of ideas, there was a story he wanted to write, and he would go back to work on a play that had been stalled for months. His energy was returning.

  And the novel? I asked, almost embarrassed to bring it up.

  He was silent for a moment and said, more a statement of trust than a question, It is still safely sleeping beneath your person?

  It is.

  Then let’s leave it there for now. When I have a moment between the story and the play—when I’ve made real progress and the intrusion of impatient, neglected characters into my life no longer fills me with fear and despair—well, yes, perhaps I shall return to the novel, too.

  If you like, you could read to me what you’ve written so far. It would be a way to reintroduce yourself to your characters.

  It came out very suddenly and unexpectedly, my request, or offer, despite the fact that I knew that sharing his work, even finished, was something he disliked doing.

  I could hear him scraping the soles of his shoes in semicircles on the wooden floor, could imagine him staring at his feet as they cleared a small space of thought. Then he said, Yes, I like your idea, but only if you promise, dear Zinaida Mikhailovna, to be very good and speak of it to no one, not even your journal. This must be done in the utmost secrecy; you must give me your word.

  You have it, Anton Pavlovich.

  And so I have agreed, henceforth, not to write another line about Anton Pavlovich’s novel.

  NOT ANOTHER WORD ABOUT Anton Pavlovich’s novel? Ana felt a surge of despair. Zinaida Mikhailovna in such a privileged position, and she agreed to keep the book all to herself, at his almost whimsical request?

  Of course this was normal and natural in a friendship, to respect trust, to keep secrets. What was more puzzling to Ana was why Anton Pavlovich was so loath to let anything out into the world about the novel. He spoke quite openly about the story he was writing that summer (“A Boring Story”), or the play (The Wood Demon), but he seemed to want to hide everything about the novel.

  Perhaps it was too personal or too challenging. Perhaps he was revealing things about himself—in an autobiographical way—that could be found nowhere else in his work, so until he was sure of the novel’s viability, he did not want to share it with anyone; or perhaps he was not always pleased with the book, so the less he said about it in general, the less explaining he would have to do if he abandoned the project altogether. Which, historically—until now—seemed to be what he had done.

  Zinaida had made the completion of his novel her purpose, something she could reasonably strive for. She wanted to do what she could to encourage and support him, to inspire him.

  Ana had seen her offering friendship, trust, consolation, insight. Now she saw that, through gentle urgings, Zinaida hoped to be a muse. Not the ethereal-goddess-on-a-pedestal type of muse, inspiring the artist through beauty and unattainability; no, merely a plain woman who, through her open, giving, and utterly disinterested spirit, could encourage him to continue and find the resources in himself to persevere.

  But the excessive secrecy on Anton Pavlovich’s part meant that precious information regarding the actual fate of the manuscript would be lost. Supposing it was last seen under Zinaida’s mattress, a hundred and twenty-five years ago, supposing he left it with her at the end of the summer? Even if it were still there—even if the estate were standing, and the original furniture existed—how could fragile sheets of paper in a heavy box survive two wars, revolution, foreign occupation, climate, silverfish, mice, damp, and mold, and simply the fading of ink over time?

  The same way Zinaida Mikhailovna’s journal had survived.

  Ana could only hope the manuscript had been found along with Zinaida’s notebooks and was being kept in a safe secret place until it was ready for publication.

  It was time to write to Katya Kendall for an update. Ana sent suggestions for the title and added casually, Any news about the other novel you mentioned at lunch?

  KATYA SAW THE MESSAGE from Anastasia Harding in her inbox. Update? said the subject line.

  My poor girl, she thought, you do not want an update. Unless you are writing to give me an update, and what wil
l I do with it? I trust you; I know you are reading, translating, living at Luka, and that is all I need to know.

  The titles seemed meaningless; as for the other novel . . .

  What a pity, thought Katya, that I can’t confide in Ana Harding.

  We got along well, those few hours. She seems well acquainted with solitude. I have joined her there lately, in trying to understand it myself, given Peter’s absence. She seems to have a sort of faith—not a religious faith but an openness, a preparedness, something we share with Zinaida Mikhailovna: a faith that life might come through. Even if it ends up being something we have to look for inside ourselves.

  But I keep everything to myself and retreat further. It seems easier this way; easier to keep a handle on Peter, on myself. Soviet womanhood, indeed. Women keeping it together, is all. As usual.

  Katya walked into the kitchen, stood at the sink rinsing her coffee mug, and looked out the window at the garden. It was raining, a light spring shower with droplets of sunshine. What in Russian we might call a mushroom rain, she mused, a notion unknown to unimaginative English weather forecasters. A cultural nuance, virtually untranslatable. How will Ana be coping with such nuances, with the relative poverty of the English language? It had been a perpetual and often virulent, although good-natured, debate with Peter from the moment they had met. He would go on and on about Shakespeare and tease her about Pushkin (Pushkin, Pushkin, what is Pushkin? like a child’s rhyme); he refused to believe that Russian—that any language—could be richer than English. It dismayed her, infuriated her—he had studied Russian, after all, though he never attained complete fluency—and she would call him a retrograde linguistic imperialist, somewhat in jest, but in the end, they both clung to what they knew, to the faith of the tongue they had heard as infants while learning to love the world; they clung to what they believed in. Peter to his country, even though, lately, it had let him down so badly; and Katya to her language, her greatest comfort and pride. Pushkin, Pushkin, what is Pushkin, indeed.