The Summer Guest Page 28

  Don’t you know about it? asked Ana.

  It’s not in our archive. Although I remember some years ago—many years ago, in fact—when some additional correspondence between Maria Pavlovna and Natalya Lintvaryova was found, there was some speculation that Zinaida Mikhailovna might have left a diary. She had always been a great reader, a great writer of letters, so her sister said. But it has never been found. Where did you hear of it?

  It was sent to me by the British publisher. They specialize in translations from Russian. Actually, I’m translating it into English.

  Larissa Lvovna looked confused, as if she had misplaced something, her gaze darting around the room. How can this be? Where was it found?

  I don’t know. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.

  Have you heard anything about this, Seryozha?

  Again he shrugged, his expression apologetic.

  She turned to Ana. Does this diary mention Chekhov?

  Of course. It’s a diary of her friendship with him, those two summers.

  But by that time Zinaida Mikhailovna was blind, epileptic, how could she keep a diary? How extraordinary! Do you have a copy of it?

  Ana reached for her bag, where she had a printout of the Russian. She handed it to Larissa, who took it eagerly and sat reading for a long while, quickly turning the pages, stopping now and again to shake her head or pass a page to Sergey Ivanovich, who continually cleared his throat. She looked up at Ana once or twice, her eyes bright, but didn’t say anything. For the museum, this would be a treasure.

  Ana took out her cell phone. It was still early; perhaps she could reach Katya Kendall, tell her where she was. She was breaking the confidentiality clause, but she could not imagine it mattered in this case. She dialed the number and got Katya’s voicemail, so she left a message, urgently asking her to return the call without specifying why or that she was actually in Ukraine.

  Sergey Ivanovich went over to a cabinet and took out a bottle and three small glasses, then disappeared for a few minutes in the kitchen and came back with a plate of small chunks of assorted ham and cheese and some bread.

  We must celebrate! he said, beaming.

  Larissa put the printout to one side. Sergey Ivanovich poured the vodka, and they raised a toast to the Lintvaryovs.

  We must authenticate it, said Larissa Lvovna calmly, but Ana could sense her excitement. You must get the publisher to contact us so we can arrange to see the manuscript.

  I’ve just left a message. I can’t believe they haven’t been in touch with you.

  Yes, it is strange, said Larissa Lvovna, but then we are so far away here. The White Dacha—the museum in Yalta—has had all the attention in recent years. Oh dear. What will happen now in Crimea?

  She put her knuckles to her temples briefly, dramatically, then sighed and went back to reading the typescript. Ana talked with Sergey Ivanovich, about general things, her interest in Chekhov, her short summer in Moscow so many years ago. Then she asked him what he knew about the Lintvaryov family after Chekhov’s time.

  Let’s see . . . Natalya Mikhailovna and Georges moved to Kharkov after the October Revolution. All the others died before 1917, or maybe Elena . . . yes, she survived until 1922. Anyway, the only descendant we were in touch with was Ksenia Georgievna, Georges’s daughter. She ended up in New York, died some years ago, but she never mentioned any diary, and she would have been the logical person to have it. But her children and grandchildren are spread all over the world—in Russia, in Australia, in the United States. So much time has gone by . . .

  Ana turned to Larissa Lvovna and said, At one point the diary was kept in Zinaida Mikhailovna’s bed, she had a hiding place there. Supposing the bed was sold recently as an antique—couldn’t some unknown person have found the original journal and donated or sold it to a Russian publisher, who then sent it to England?

  Larissa Lvovna chuckled, raised an eyebrow. I don’t think such a bed would have survived. Firewood was needed on more than one occasion.

  But what about your own furniture, in the museum?

  It’s not original. Most of it was donated, by Maria Pavlovna from the house in Yalta, or from eminent benefactors in Sumy, but not the Lintvaryovs.

  She gave an apologetic shrug and went on reading, visibly skimming some of the pages, then slowing down whenever Anton Pavlovich was mentioned. At one point she paused to eat some cheese and ham. They drank another toast, this time to Anton Pavlovich. The vodka made Ana bold. It came out in spite of her, as if everything were at stake now.

  That’s not everything, you know, she said. You haven’t read that far yet, Larissa Lvovna, but you’ll see in the journal that Anton Pavlovich gave Zinaida Mikhailovna a manuscript for safekeeping—a novel he was working on. A heavy box, she calls it. One hundred and seventy-eight pages long. As far as I know, from her diary, she had it in her possession at the time of her death.

  Larissa Lvovna sat up very straight and looked at Ana incredulously. Sergey Ivanovich removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fists like a small child.

  You must be very careful, you know, said Larissa Lvovna. It’s like the art world: There is a traffic in fakes. Everything is possible now. Before, no . . .

  No, Ana exclaimed, it’s not the same, what would be the point of a fake manuscript? Why would anyone go to so much trouble?

  To make money, what else. She gave a fatalistic shrug. What do you think, Seryozha? Larissa Lvovna asked.

  Let me call my cousin Yuri, suggested Sergey Ivanovich. He’s a publisher. He might know something.

  You do that, said Larissa Lvovna. This is too important. If this diary is authentic, it will be a treasure for the museum. We can print special editions, illustrated. The tourists will buy them. As for a novel by Anton Pavlovich . . . if he left it with the Lintvaryovs, Maria Pavlovna could have taken it in the summer of 1890, when she came back on her own; perhaps she kept it for some time, then destroyed it. Or Anton Pavlovich himself destroyed it.

  Oh, it can’t be, thought Ana. She had read about Maria Pavlovna’s visit. It was perfectly plausible that she had taken the novel away with her.

  After a moment they heard Sergey Ivanovich’s voice booming down the line in the other room, increasingly excited, a chain of exclamations and short, eager questions. Finally, he came back in and began rubbing his hands and looking at Larissa Lvovna almost mischievously.

  Lara, he said emphatically, do you recall last year—about this time, yes, late spring, early summer—there was a woman who came to Luka and asked a lot of questions about the Lintvaryovs? And she had a big camera and took a lot of pictures?

  Dear Seryozha, we have so many visitors. Or used to, anyway.

  I remember her because you asked me to accompany her. She spoke Russian fluently, but clearly, she lived abroad and needed a local guide. She was staying at that nice hotel. A very thin woman, but ever so elegant. She had called ahead, and you asked me to meet her at the hotel and take her to the marshrutka and bring her here—

  Clearly? Why clearly? You’re not being clear at all, Seryozha.

  Ana looked away, stared at the rows of books on the wall, the name Чеxов dancing volume after volume before her eyes, but she was seeing the gastropub in South Kensington, and Katya Kendall, thin and elegant, with her sky-gray eyes. But it would be normal for Katya to come to Luka, for the same reasons she herself had come, to see where Zinaida Mikhailovna had befriended Anton Pavlovich, to find out more about the elusive novel he was writing.

  Don’t you remember? said Seryozha. She said she was doing research on prerevolutionary estates. She asked a lot of questions about the Lintvaryovs, but she did not seem very interested in Anton Pavlovich.

  Exactly, thought Ana, contradicting what she had concluded not five seconds earlier. She was interested in the Lintvaryov family. Perhaps for publicity purposes, for later. Illustrations for the diary, perhaps.

  Larissa Lvovna grunted and gave Sergey Ivanovich an affectionately withering look.


  You don’t recall, said Sergey Ivanovich. Well, it’s not important, because I do, and this lady happened to mention to me that her husband was a publisher. In London, she—

  Ana interrupted him: Do you remember the name of the publishing house?

  Sergey Ivanovich looked at the ceiling, then shook his head. She did tell me her first name. She asked a lot of questions but was very evasive when I questioned her.

  Get to the point, Seryozha! said Larissa Lvovna.

  My cousin Yuri—the one I just called—well, he told me that a few months ago, he received a manuscript in the post. It was in Russian but sent from England. With a cover letter in Russian explaining simply that a nineteenth-century journal had been found in London in the home of some Russian émigrés, and would he like to publish it? Yuri said he read the first ten pages or so and it didn’t interest him. He sent it back without realizing at the time that it was about Anton Chekhov. What a fool!

  How do you know it’s the same manuscript? said Larissa Lvovna.

  Well, we can’t be sure, he said, but it was set in Sumy. Yuri had just published a book about our sugar baron, Kharitonenko. An outstanding capitalist! said Sergey Ivanovich, turning to Ana. Have you seen his new statue in the city center?

  Ana nodded. Larissa Lvovna was rolling her eyes and tapping her foot.

  Undaunted, Sergey continued: Yuri said he remembers a blind woman, and he thought readers would find it too depressing. Now. He sent it back, but then a colleague of his received it, and read it through, and later told Yuri it was about Chekhov. This colleague said he wanted to buy it, but the British publisher was asking too much. Apparently, the manuscript has been going around Moscow and Petersburg and Kiev ever since, and either the publishers can’t afford it or they’re afraid it’s not authentic.

  Is it an old manuscript? An original? Handwritten? asked Larissa Lvovna.

  Sergey tutted. Of course not! That would be too valuable, if it were authentic. No, just some computer printout—like this one, he said, pointing to the pages on Larissa Lvovna’s lap. Anyway, to continue my story, one woman recently made a small offer and never heard back. Terribly irresponsible. Yuri is very discouraged by the state of the publishing world. He says people will either stop reading altogether or pirate his entire catalog.

  Get to the point, Seryozha! insisted Larissa Lvovna.

  The point, dear Lara, is the name. I remembered while talking to Yuri—the brain is a wonderful thing. I remembered that the woman I showed around called herself Catherine something-or-other. And Yuri says the woman who signed the cover letter was Ekaterina something-or-other.

  But Seryozha, that is a terribly common name! said Larissa. It proves nothing. How are we to authenticate this book!

  Sergey Ivanovich, Ana said, was the woman’s name Catherine Kendall? Does that ring a bell? From Polyana Press in London? Polyana as in Yasnaya Polyana?

  Sergey Ivanovich stabbed the air with his finger. Exactly! I knew there was something to do with Tolstoy!

  Larissa Lvovna chuckled and shook her head. What a funny name for a British publisher, she said.

  To Ana, it all made sense. It was odd that Katya had not mentioned her trip during their lunch, but there was no reason why she should. Perhaps she had come here, like Ana, on a sort of personal pilgrimage, in addition to taking photographs for the book.

  But what does this prove? asked Larissa Lvovna. We still don’t know where the diary comes from. What house in London? Who are these émigrés? Oligarchs? Fugitives from the regime? Or from an earlier time?

  Ana said, I am sure she will tell me, now that you are interested in the diary for the museum. She just doesn’t want anyone else to know for the moment.

  Then why is she sending it to publishers? asked Larissa Lvovna. Why hasn’t she been in touch with us? It’s very odd, but . . . She looked down at her lap again and resumed reading.

  Sergey Ivanovich looked at Ana and nodded toward Larissa, placing a finger on his lips. He led Ana over to a bookshelf and began to show her his collection of books about Chekhov. It was impressive: an entire wall, a library in itself, with volumes not only in Russian but also in German, French, Spanish, and English. He explained that he had a passive working knowledge of all four languages. It is very interesting to me, he said, how everyone loves Chekhov. Very different, almost national points of view, down to the way his name is spelled. Look, he said, pointing at the spines, Tschechow, Tchékhov, Chejov.

  Then he showed her some other volumes at the end of the shelf. My colleagues in other countries send me books as well, look. In Afrikaans it is spelled Tsjechof. But in Dutch there is a v at the end.

  He giggled as he showed Ana the two contrasting volumes. And in Polish, Czechow, and in Hungarian, Csehov, and best of all, in Catalan, you must see—

  Suddenly, Larissa Lvovna exclaimed, What?

  They turned and saw her waving her hand, her eyes on the manuscript. What’s this? I don’t understand, she said, looking over at them. Seryozha, the child—the one born at Luka that first summer, the birth Chekhov mentions in his letter to Pleshcheyev—who was it?

  He grew thoughtful, frowned, scratched his beard, and said finally, Of course, the first one was born while Anton Pavlovich was staying with them, July 1888, if I’m not mistaken . . . Yes, a girl it was, Ksenia. She became a doctor. And then a few years later, they had a boy.

  Seryozha! Larissa Lvovna exploded. Surely you remember it was the other way around! It was a boy first—Vsevolod. It’s right there in Sapukhin’s book, on your shelf! She turned to Ana. This seems a terrible discrepancy, she said. I don’t know what to think.

  Well, there must be a mistake.

  Larissa Lvovna shrugged fatalistically. Whose mistake?

  Can’t we ask the author of that book?

  Sapukhin? He died in 1970.

  Larissa Lvovna gathered up the pages of the printout, tapped them on her lap, and handed them back to Ana. I’ve read enough for now, she said, I don’t like this mistake.

  Sergey Ivanovich protested. It’s not a—

  I don’t like it one bit. It’s very odd. When you have the diary authenticated, I’ll read the rest.

  Ana said, When, then, Larissa Lvovna, was Ksenia Lintvar-yova born, according to this Mr. Sapukhin?

  Not until 1894. Three years after Zinaida Mikhailovna died.

  They sat in puzzled silence. Ana’s heart was hammering in her chest, while her mind lapsed into a vague confused trance close to prayer. Sergey Ivanovich asked her, And what do you think of our new government in Kiev?

  Seryozha, please, said Larissa Lvovna.

  Well, I’m pleased you got rid of the old one, said Ana, trying to sound cheerful, then instantly wondering if she hadn’t put her foot in it.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Larissa Lvovna was shaking her head, and it was impossible to tell whether it was in disagreement or exasperation. Sergey Ivanovich opened his mouth as if about to speak, then thought better of it.

  I hope the fighting in the south will be over soon, said Ana, looking at them.

  They seemed to agree on that, nodding gravely while withholding whom they hoped would win.

  Ana went back to the hotel that night determined, somehow, to prove that Sergey Ivanovich was no absent-minded buffoon, that his version of the Lintvaryov family tree was correct: Ksenia was Pavel Mikhailovich and Antonida Fyodorovna’s firstborn child.

  She ate a hurried supper—more borscht, not as tasty as the day before—then tried again to call Katya Kendall. She would have no trouble confronting her; all she had to do was ask if Katya had ever been to Sumy, then tell her about the discrepancy and see what she said.

  She heard the faraway ringing; there was no answer, not even a voicemail message this time.

  The storm-heavy air seemed to reverberate with Ana’s apprehension. She went to reception and asked if there was a computer with an Internet connection that she could use, and the young woman led her to a stifling windowless office. If b
eginning storm, she said in English, please to turn off computer. She pointed meaningfully to the various switches.

  Ana wondered why she had not thought of looking on the Internet sooner. Gullibility, a willingness to trust and believe, to give others the benefit of the doubt?

  On Amazon she found several books written by Catherine Kendall, all published by Polyana Press: two travel books on Saint Petersburg and a historical novel about Grand Duchess Anastasia, Anastasia Nikolayevna. Ana was able to browse a few pages. It was written, as far as she could tell, in diary form. There was no evidence that it was a translation; it appeared to have been written directly in English.

  She googled Polyana Press and found a very recent article in The Bookseller, published the day before she left for Kiev, reporting that the press had gone into receivership. This small independent publisher, confirmed the article, has been struggling since the financial downturn of 2008. Interest in travel writing has waned dramatically, and lucrative contracts with Russia have also fallen off, due to the economic situation and now the political crisis over Ukraine, according to Peter Kendall, the publisher.

  This went a long way toward explaining their silence and the fact that she hadn’t been paid, although that no longer seemed to matter.

  She recalled Larissa Lvovna referring to Chekhov’s letter to Pleshcheyev, a letter in which he described the birth of Pavel and Antonida’s child. The letters were available online, so Ana looked there next, while the thunder got louder and the lights began to flicker. Storm beginning, must to turn off computer, she thought, but the receptionist did not come to scold her.

  Anton Pavlovich did indeed write a letter to Pleshcheyev on July 7, 1888, in which he described the imminent birth of Pavel and Antonida’s child.

  I am writing to you, dear Aleksey Nikolayevich, and at this very moment all of Luka is in a complete uproar, a whirlwind of shouts, cries, and groans: Antonida Fyodorovna is giving birth. Every now and then I have to run over to the cottage vis-à-vis, where the newly minted parents live. The birth is not a difficult one, but it is taking a while . . .