And then suddenly the door to the closet creaked, and Lisa appeared in the doorway. She stood motionless, as if assessing whether she had somehow disturbed the scene she had witnessed. Her gaze slid across the floor, lingered on the shelf by the wall, and finally stopped on them - on Delia and Xander. She looked longest at their clasped hands. The expression on her face changed slightly: the corner of her mouth twitched, her eyebrows rose slightly. Not surprise, not displeasure - something third, elusive. But almost immediately everything disappeared behind her usual polite mask.
"Oh, there you are," she said, in the tone one uses when discovering a kitten has escaped under the bed. "I was beginning to think you had abandoned me."
Her voice was soft, too even, too amiable. It expressed neither joy nor anxiety, only a slightly false cheerfulness, as if she were reminding him of herself delicately but with a certain purpose. Her intonation suggested the kind of politeness that often conceals annoyance. She stepped inside, unhurriedly, looking about the little room like a proprietor, as if wondering if there was anything inappropriate there.
"Excuse me," she added, "I confess I didn't expect to find you here. I just came to say it was time to go out. Fresh air is the best doctor, especially after... After worries."
The words were careful, but they conveyed the idea that everything said was essentially not subject to discussion.
Delia, who had been standing almost with her back to the door the whole time, did not shrink back, did not hide behind Xander. She only slowly unclenched her fingers, releasing his hand. She did it deliberately, so that Lisa could see it. Then she turned around and nodded, as if nothing special had happened. Not her tears a minute ago, not the stranger's hand, tightly clenched in hers.
"I'm ready," she said calmly.
Lisa looked a little more closely than was necessary. As if searching for a tremor in her voice, for the former submissiveness to slip through. But Delia stood straight, looking without embarrassment. Her face was still pale, her eyes were reddened, but there was no confusion in them.
Lisa, noticing the change, said nothing. She just pulled the corners of her lips up a little more in a smile - a long, impenetrable smile, like that of people who are not used to admitting defeat even in a glance.
"Very well," she said, almost cheerfully. "Then I'll wait for you in the hallway."
And, turning around, she left. Her steps faded into the depths of the corridor.
Xander still stood rooted to the spot. He looked at Delia as if for the first time. Something had changed in her, and this change frightened him and at the same time pulled him along, like something important that was impossible to resist.
She looked at him, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and smiled - truly, not for someone else, not through force.
"Come on," she said. "We can go out into the yard, right?"
Xander nodded. He didn't know what to say. He only knew that he would walk beside her, as long as it took. They passed the walls, shadows gliding across the floor, and a minute later the door leading to the garden slammed softly behind them.
And Lisa Roselli stood by the window, her back straight, almost solemnly, as if her very pose were meant to confirm her right to observe. Beyond the glass, in the uneven sunlight, Delia and Xander were descending the steps into the courtyard. The girl walked a little ahead, the boy a half-step behind, as if guarding, but without pretension. Their silhouettes, outlined by the glare, were quieter than the silence itself, and for some reason this silence irritated Lisa more than if they had been making noise, laughing, or running away.
She pressed her finger to the glass, tracing the outline of their figures with the tip of her nail, and thought: how easy it all had been. Almost effortless, without delays, without resistance. One letter from the right person, two conversations with Hastings, and she was already here, in a house that smelled of baked goods, where there was no dust on the carpets, and where, most importantly, the object was located. All it took was a little politeness, good English, and the right accent.
The secret police first became interested in the girl in February, before she fell ill. It all started not even with her, but with Sergei Zazyrin, a student, harmless in appearance, with a careless gait and a hunched back, but with dangerous connections. Delia was just passing by, with her governess, with a book under her arm. But then there was that incident, on Nevsky, near a shop where the display case glittered with French novels, and he, passing by, picked up her handkerchief. The simplicity of the girl's reaction, "thank you, mister," seemed suspicious to someone then. Simply because there was no fear or embarrassment in her. Too free, too confident.
Then there was more - a bakery, a park, inconspicuous glances, a couple of phrases. Someone reported that the girl laughed. For Earl Knight, who began to suspect after every breakfast, this was enough. And when the governess Josephine suddenly died - from a "heart attack", as it was written - the solution came instantly. He had to put in his own. Hastings had a choice - and they slipped Lisa to him. He had no idea. He praised her, repeating: "She is reliable. American. And she does not wear corsets - a sign of freedom of spirit." How convenient it is to be needed by a person who does not understand people.
And now she's here. In the house. At the table. By the window.
The girl was walking across the yard. The boy's hand touched her elbow for a second, and Delia did not pull away. Lisa narrowed her eyes. Something in this childish gait was different than before. The plasticity of the body was different. No absentmindedness, no confusion. Concentration - that's what alarmed her. As if in this house, in this girl, something unaccounted for was happening.
She licked her lips, not from hunger but from habit. She had once been told that gestures control impressions no worse than words. She believed it. She knew how to wait. Lisa caught movement at the window. Delia, already putting her foot on the first step, suddenly turned around slightly, quickly, as if out of the corner of her eye, but enough to notice. Was she checking? Looking around? Or just habit? Lisa narrowed her eyes. There was something alarming about this girl: a caution that shouldn't have been there at nine or ten. Not an actress's, but a practiced one. Or maybe it was her intuition speaking, but the girl definitely felt that she was being watched.
"Oh, you stupid child," Lisa whispered with an almost maternal mockery. "You don't even understand what kind of game you've gotten yourself into. Or are you beginning to understand?"
She allowed herself a brief smile. This hunt was becoming to her taste. There was excitement in it, the cold joy of a correct guess. Not quite a game, but not just work either. More like an exploration, in which the subject, without even suspecting it, was giving signals.
Moving away from the window, she walked deeper into the house, unhurriedly, as if through her own chambers. The embroidery room, where it was usually quiet, now greeted her with the steady rustle of thread stretching through the fabric. Karen sat by the window, her back straight, her eyes empty. Her hands moved by inertia, the needle rose and fell, but her gaze kept eluding the canvas, as if what should have held her attention did not deserve it.
Lisa approached easily, with cat-like smoothness. She sat down to the side, not too close, but not too politely either - the way not guests but hostesses of the situation sit down. Her voice rang with concern:
"I don't want to bother you, Mrs. York... But I thought it would be important for you to know. Your daughter is behaving... A little defiantly. Of course, she's only eight years old, nerves, changes... But still. She doesn't listen, leaves without asking, communicates with a boy, with the cook's son, you know? She behaves as if she was not brought up."
Karen didn't look up. At first Lisa thought that she had simply not been heard. But then, as if with a delay, the mistress of the house said - quietly, evenly, barely moving her lips:
"Let him play. This is Russia, Miss Roselli. It's not like home."
Her voice sounded lifeless. No irritation, no fear, and certainly no maternal impulse. There wasn't even any annoyance. As if she was talking about someone else's child.
Lisa held her breath for a second. There was something in that reaction... Something suspicious. Not because Karen was defending her, but because she wasn't defending her at all. A real mother wouldn't say that, flashed through her mind. No trace of alarm. No attempt to justify. No emotion.
And then Lisa thought something she hadn't allowed herself to think before: What if all this isn't what it seems?
Yorks. America. Petersburg. A girl who is allowed too much. A lawyer who is never home. And the strange death of a governess, which almost happened to her advantage. Maybe this is not a family at all. Maybe Delia is not their daughter at all. Maybe this is all a cover.
She felt the excitement. The boy - Xander - might know more than he seemed. He was simple, yes, but children in poverty are tenacious and observant. If you press him - not with a fist, but with affection, fear or a promise - he would talk. Then - to Delia's room. There was definitely something there. Letters, papers, drawings. Everything that the girl had not managed to hide.
"Such a wild girl..." she sighed out loud, already changing her intonation. "But of course I won't give up. I'll try. You understand, Mrs. York... This isn't just a job."
Karen still did not take her eyes off the canvas. But the needle in her fingers suddenly trembled - and a thin drop of blood was absorbed into the white fabric.
Lisa noticed, but said nothing. And yet, leaving, she was pleased. Everything had started as it should.
...666...
A few days later, on May 17, the morning began with joyful news that spread throughout St. Petersburg. The city woke up to the triumphant cry of the newspapermen: "Amur" sank Japanese battleships near Port Arthur! The first victory in a long time, worthy of being written about in large print, decorating the headlines with ornate fonts, and not in terse lines full of defeats.
Gene York, sitting at the dining room table, leafed through the latest issue over breakfast. His breakfast was leisurely, as befits a man who knew the value of his time and dignity. The snow-white tablecloth, silverware, chinaware - everything breathed sedateness and comfort. He drank coffee, the aroma of which spread throughout the room, mixing with the smell of printer's ink. He nodded with satisfaction, reading the news. Here it is, the good news! The news is just in time, on the eve of Delia's birthday. At least some kind of celebration against the background of everything else, against the background of painful thoughts about the war and anxious forebodings hovering in the air of the capital.
Later, when breakfast was over and business papers were put aside, Gene and Karen set out for town. The driver, a sturdy man in a sheepskin coat, despite the month of May, carried them slowly along the cobblestone street. The horse, an old nag, stamped its hooves rhythmically, as if counting the rhythm of their life, familiar and established. Gene, leaning back in his seat, talked enthusiastically about the new governess. Lisa Roselli, in his opinion, was a real miracle, a find sent by Providence itself.
"Karen, darling," he said, his voice full of genuine pleasure, as if he had sunk those Japanese battleships himself. "You'll see, now you'll finally be able to breathe a sigh of relief and live for yourself. This Lisa... She's just a godsend. A real diamond. Deedle has completely transformed with her. She's so attentive, so caring. And how educated, just think about it! Not that..."
He stopped short, as if tripping over an invisible stone. The old name, Josephine, hung in the air, unspoken, but all the more tangible for that. Karen, who had been silently watching the houses flashing past the window, slowly turned her head towards him. Her face, usually so calm, acquired a hint of bitterness. Her fingers, lying on her reticule, involuntarily clenched, and the fabric crackled beneath them, almost inaudibly.
"Not like..." she repeated quietly, and there was such hurt in her voice that Gene winced. "Not like Josephine, right, Gene? Isn't that what you wanted to say?"
He awkwardly adjusted his hat, trying to avoid her gaze.
"Well, Karen, that's not what I meant at all. It's just... It's just that Lisa is young, full of energy, and Josephine... She wasn't so strong anymore. And, frankly, her methods..."
"Methods?" Karen leaned forward, and her voice, usually so soft, became hard as steel. "Her methods? She raised our Deedle from the cradle, Gene! She was there for her when we were busy with our own affairs, when you were building your office, and I... And I was trying to get along in this foreign country! She wiped her tears when she fell, she read her fairy tales when Deedle was afraid of the dark. She was part of our family, Gene. Part of our life. And you say 'not that'?"
Gene sighed, his enthusiasm fading like a wilted flower.
"You're always apt to get too attached to servants, Karen," he said, trying to sound firm, but it came out as tired. "Josephine, with all due respect, was just a worker, nothing more. Why get sentimental? There are some things that must be taken as they are. It was... It was an accident."
"An accident that seemed to come in handy," Karen whispered, her eyes filled with pain. She wasn't looking at him, her gaze was fixed on the window, on the houses flashing by. "You replaced her so easily, so easily accepted this Lisa, who is essentially a stranger, into our home. You admire her as if she were... As if she were your own. And Josephine... It's as if she never existed."
She paused, and the air in the carriage seemed thick with unspoken words.
"She was more than just a governess to Deedle," Karen continued, barely audible. "She was her... She was her mother. As much as I can be in this mess."
She turned her head toward the window, pretending to be interested in the sign of a fashionable store by the side of the road. And outside the glass, the streets of St. Petersburg floated by, gray and majestic, keeping many secrets under their granite vaults. The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter, like the haze over the city.
Gene, sensing the tension in the air, quickly changed the subject so as not to delve into the quagmire of bitter memories and reproaches. The conversation about the late governess, especially on such a day, was completely out of place for him. He straightened his shoulders, as if shaking off the burden of awkwardness, and spoke in a cheerful, businesslike, energetic tone.
"However, why do we need these gloomy thoughts, Karen? - he said, waving his hand almost theatrically. "Today should be full of joyful anticipation! May 18th, Deedle's birthday! We should think about presents, about how to please her. I've been thinking about it... What might she like?"
He turned to her, trying to catch her gaze, to spark interest in it.
"There's a wonderful book," Gene continued, without waiting for an answer. "A new edition of Gulliver's Travels, beautifully illustrated, bound in leather. I think Deedle will like it. Or perhaps a new perfume from Paris? I heard that something quite extraordinary was brought to Au Bon Marché, with the scent of spring flowers. What do you think?"
Karen nodded. Slowly, with a kind of mechanical smoothness, like the pendulum of an old clock. But there was no participation in her nods, none of the lively response that Gene was used to seeing in her eyes when she talked about Delia. The words she spoke in response were empty, as if spoken automatically, mindlessly, merely to maintain the semblance of conversation.
"Yes, Gene... Swift's book... That's good," she muttered, and her gaze, absentminded and absent, remained fixed on some distant, her own space, invisible to Gene.
She seemed to see something else, something that lay beyond the walls of this carriage, beyond the dusty St. Petersburg day. This did not escape Gene. He frowned, his forehead becoming a network of fine wrinkles. Gene was a man of action, accustomed to clear answers and precise reactions. Karen's lack of these irritated him. He noted to himself that her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, and this detachment, this invisible wall between them, was not to his liking.
"Karen, are you listening to me?" There was impatience in his voice. "You seem kind of... kind of thoughtful. Is everything okay?"
Karen started, as if coming out of a slumber. She looked at him, a hint of guilt in her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Gene," she said, almost silently, and there was weariness in the whisper, almost a plea. "I'm just... I'm just tired."
Either an excuse, or a request not to dig deeper. Gene caught it. He only nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. He did not insist. Silence descended on the carriage again, but this time it was different - heavy, filled with innuendo and unspoken pain.
The cab driver, grunting something under his breath, turned off Fontanka onto Nevsky Prospect, where a jewelry store was already waiting for them with shop windows sparkling with thousands of lights, even on this cloudy day. Gold and silver, precious stones shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow, beckoned with their brilliance, promising eternal beauty and lasting value.
Gene York seemed to breathe in the glitter. He stepped out of the cart first, with the same ardor, the same energy with which he began any task, be it a lawsuit or a gift purchase. His face lit up at the sight of the glittering displays, and he was already looking forward to the moment when he would be able to choose something truly special for Delia.
Karen followed. Her movements were a little slow, as if each step required incredible effort from her. She walked next to Gene, but her gaze remained absentminded, as it had been since the morning. It wandered along Nevsky Prospect, glided over the faces of passers-by, over the facades of houses, but did not linger on anything, as if nothing could truly attract her attention.
"Something was wrong," this thought flashed through Gene's mind for a second. He, a man of observation and accustomed to precision, could not help but notice this detachment, this inner emptiness in Karen. Usually she treated Delia with such trepidation, her birthday, every little thing that concerned their daughter. And now... And now she was like a shadow, a ghost of her own joy.
But he pushed the thought away. He brushed it aside like an annoying fly. He decided that she was probably just tired. Petersburg, with its constant bustle, its dampness and changeable weather, could tire anyone. Especially a woman accustomed to a different climate, a different way of life.
Gene took Karen by the arm, lightly squeezing her elbow, trying to convey his cheerfulness, his mood to her.
"Come on, Karen," he said, his voice softer than usual but still insistent. "Let's not linger. Deedle is waiting. We need to choose something truly special."
Karen smiled weakly. It was a forced smile, almost weightless. She let Gene lead her, her body moving by inertia, and her soul seemed to remain somewhere far away, beyond this noisy and bustling world. They entered the doors of the jewelry store, and the ringing of the bell above the entrance announced the arrival of new customers, whose thoughts were far from the holiday bustle.
...666...
At the same time that Gene York was trying to dispel his wife's dark thoughts amid the glitter of the jewelry display cases, a no less complicated drama was unfolding in the cramped office of the Security Department on Fontanka. This office, littered with folders tied with string and paper baskets full of drafts, breathed the musty air of secrecy.
Here, at a plain oak table, sat Earl Knight. An American. Gray-haired, with thick sideburns which, together with his round, seemingly good-natured eyes, gave him the appearance of a village schoolmaster, or perhaps a druggist searching a jar of leeches for a new way to draw the truth out of a man.
Those who did not know him might have thought that he was a gentle and even simple-minded man, prone to long conversations about the weather and the harvest. But those who had the chance to talk to him for more than ten minutes understood that behind this appearance lurked a mind, sharp and predatory, like a blade hidden in a velvet sheath.
His smile was soft, almost paternal, but there was no warmth in it, only a detached politeness. And his absent-minded, slightly thoughtful manner served only as a cover for his iron will and unbending determination. He was like a cat dozing in the sun, but ready at any moment to release its claws.
How he ended up in Russia was the subject of legends in the court office, and especially in the smoking rooms. They said that even before the Russo-Japanese War, he had come here as an agent of the famous Pinkerton Agency, pursuing some clever rogue who had robbed a couple of large banks in New York. The villain, it seems, was never caught - or at least that was what was officially said - but Knight remained.
They took a closer look at him. Russian officials, tired of their own procrastination and sluggishness, who loved foreigners with "order in their heads" and the ability to act without unnecessary words, quickly appreciated his methods. The methods, of course, were unusual for the local minds: Knight did not shy away from dirty work, as long as it brought a clean result. He could easily enter a tavern where suspicious elements gathered and leave with the necessary information, without tarnishing either his uniform or his reputation.
He could be invisible, disappear into the crowd, and then reappear, as if from nowhere, with a ready-made solution. He was what the Russians called a "wolf in sheep's clothing," and that skin sat on him surprisingly well, just like a well-tailored English suit.
The door swung open without a knock and Fyrya staggered into the room. He was the embodiment of the darkest corners of this city - ugly, with a lopsided face, cut up with old scars, as if he had personally participated in every street fight that had ever happened in Petersburg. He smelled of cheap moonshine and raw leather, a smell that did not disappear in the bathhouse or in the fresh wind, but followed him like a faithful dog. In his pocket, as usual, gleamed a knuckle duster - his faithful friend and most convincing argument in arguments.
"What would you like, chief?" Fyrya croaked, and in his voice, in addition to the obvious hoarseness of the moonshine, one could hear an impudent, almost open grin.
He was one of those who were used to looking into the eyes, even if they were cloudy, and never bowing unnecessarily, even to those who could send him to hard labor. "Is there work or did they just call you for old times' sake, to have some tea?
Earl Knight did not even raise his head. The light from the window fell on his gray sideburns, emphasizing the good-natured look of the pharmacist, who was now carefully studying the recipe for a deadly poison. He only extended his hand, without taking his eyes off the papers, and placed a glass of strong, almost black tea with lemon in front of Fyrya. The steam from the tea curled in a thin stream in the air, mixing with the smell of cheap booze, creating a very strange aroma. Fyrya, accustomed to slaps in the face or, at best, to silent contempt, froze for a moment. This gesture was a surprise to him, like a spring thunderstorm in the middle of winter.
"I'm not interested in Zazyrin," Knight said, finally looking up.
His voice was even, almost colorless, as if he were talking about the most ordinary thing in the world, the price of firewood or yesterday's weather. His gaze, although it seemed calm, penetrated to the very essence, like a sharp knife, leaving no chance for evasion. For some reason, Fyrya shuddered, as if an invisible draft had run down his back. He put the glass down on the table with a dull thud.
"Zazyrin, you say?" Fyrya asked, scratching the back of his head. "What's wrong with him? He seems quiet. He just reads his books and talks to the students. What can you expect from him?"
"Such that he is already being watched," Knight continued calmly, and in his words there was a hint - subtle, almost imperceptible - that a web, invisible to the eye, was already entangling the student. As if the very air around Zazyrin was thickening, becoming viscous from the invisible threads of surveillance.
Fyrya, however, did not understand the hint. Such subtleties did not linger in his clouded consciousness. He only chuckled indifferently, sipping his tea.
"Well, let them keep an eye on him, the bosses know better," he boomed. "What's it to us? He may be a good-for-nothing, but he seems like a kind guy."
Earl chuckled to himself: Fyrya clearly didn't know about Lisa Roselli, who had been planted among the Yorks as a nanny, and all those whom Zazyrin, in his naivety, could have brought into the house. He was only a tool, not an initiate into the subtle intrigues. And unnecessary knowledge only spoils people like Fyrya, turning them from tools into interlocutors. And Knight didn't need that.
"I'm interested in the others," Knight continued, and his voice changed slightly, became a little sharper, like a knife sliding over a whetstone. "Dmitry Byakin, Denis Terekhov, and Artyom Starikov. Do you know them?"
Fyrya wiped his lips with his sleeve and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, trying to extract the necessary names from the depths of his memory.
"Bya-kin, Te-re-khov, Sta-ri-kov..." he repeated syllable by syllable, as if tasting them. "We know, sir. Small fry, but with the arrogance of generals. They talk all the time about the new life, and say bad words about the father-king. Yesterday they cooled one of them under the bridge, and he kept shouting about equality until the morning."
Knight tapped the tip of his finger on the table, and this quiet, measured knock sounded in the small office like a heartbeat in dead silence.
"They gather," Knight paused, as if letting his words settle, "at the tavern on Kabinetskaya. The one called the 'Zolotoy Yakor'. I remember you used to go there quite often."
Fyrya chuckled, recognition flashing in his eyes.
"Oh, the 'Zolotoy Yakor'! A fine place. There's a drink there, and... And people to talk to. So, does that mean I should go there?"
"That's where you belong," Knight confirmed. "Flatter. Listen. Remember everything. Every word, every gesture, every careless remark. You must become my ears, Fyrya, my eyes."
"And about the payment, boss?" Fyrya's voice, as hoarse as the creak of an unoiled cart, nevertheless betrayed impatience. His eyes darted around, as if he could already see mountains of banknotes in front of him. "After all, it's a delicate matter. Even a crow wouldn't sit on a fence for nothing."
Knight only smiled. His smile, as always, did not bring warmth, but rather reminded that even well-fed wolves can smile.
"They will", he said", if he manages without fabrications. I needed facts, Fyrya, not fables. Not a superfluous word. And don't even think of telling me fairy tales about how you brought them out "into clean water."
He raised his finger, and his movement was slow, almost cat-like.
"And if you decide to make something up for the sake of a catchphrase..." Knight looked straight into Fyrya's cloudy eyes, "...then you'd better first think about how it will end. Got it?"
Knight's gaze, though steady, pierced Fyrya like a drill. For a moment, even the drunkard Fyrya, who had no fear of the blade, felt a chill run down his spine. He understood. It was no use trying to fool this American. He was as dangerous as a snake hiding in the grass, and his good-natured appearance deceived only those who were stupid.
"Got it, boss," Fyrya muttered, lowering his gaze. "Everything is exactly the same. Word for word."
His face no longer showed thoughts, but dreams - about vodka, about papers, about a warm corner in some flophouse where he could forget about the eternal dampness and poverty. He would give everyone up if necessary. Excellent. Knight leaned back in his chair, pleased with the result. Another cog in his machine started working. He knew that Fyrya would not let him down. Not because he was loyal, but because he was too afraid. And this fear was the best guarantee of execution.
Fyrya, standing in front of Knight, was still hesitating, trying to catch at least one more word, a hint that could bring in an extra ruble. In his cloudy eyes one could read a mixture of greed and a vague, almost unconscious fear of this strange, quiet American.
"So that's it, boss?" he croaked, trying to make his voice casual. "Or are there any other assignments? I can do something here and there... Put in a good word. I have connections, you know."
Knight raised his head. His gaze was quiet and motionless, like glass behind which a bottomless depth was hidden.
"Keep up your work, Fyrya," he said. His voice was soft, almost gentle, as if he were talking to a naughty child. "But remember, I don't tolerate provocateurs overdoing it."
These words immediately made the room feel cold. It seemed that even the dust in the beam of light falling from the window froze, not daring to move. All of Fyrya's fusel bravado instantly evaporated, as if it had never been there. He swallowed, a dry lump lodged in his throat. Suddenly his lopsided face was distorted with an absurd fear, and the scars on it turned pale. He felt like a mouse caught in the gaze of a cat.
Fyrya jumped out like a mouse from behind the stove, almost hitting the door frame. The office space seemed to push him away, not wanting to put up with his presence. The door slammed behind him with a slight creak, and all that remained in the air was the smell of cheap tobacco, acrid moonshine, and some sticky, tangible fear that seemed to stick to the walls and hover in the air.
Knight, left alone, took a deep breath, as if airing the room from an unpleasant smell. Then, unhurriedly, as if performing a familiar ritual, he took a small photograph from the table. The woman in it - a nurse from the Hastings clinic - looked calmly and slightly sternly. Clear lines of the face, a direct look, no unnecessary emotions. Lisa Roselli. The American looked at her face, at these features that did not promise any whims or unnecessary worries, and thought: a reliable person. In his world, a world of shadows and intrigues, reliability was valued above all else. He put the photograph aside, and silence descended on the office again, broken only by the occasional scratch of a pen behind the wall.
...666...
At this time, Andrei Rasolko, a twenty-five-year-old columnist for the Sankt-Peterburgskie Vedomosti, was walking along Kabinetskaya Street toward the Zolotoy Yakor tavern. His frock coat, which must have seen more than one literary battle, was slightly frayed at the elbows, but his eyes were ablaze with excitement - the morning promised news, and news for a columnist was like air, without which the pen could not breathe. Kabinetskaya Street, still sleepy at this hour, welcomed him into its embrace, and Andrei's every step was full of anticipation.
Tavern the 'Zolotoy Yakor' is smelling of beer, fried fish and strong tobacco, was a favourite haunt of his friends, the writing fraternity, free artists of the word, who gathered here for morning coffee to wash the bones of politicians, laugh at city gossip and, of course, complain about low fees. Here, under the creaking of floorboards and the clink of dishes, the most caustic remarks and the boldest ideas were born.
Rasolko swung open the heavy oak door and was met by the familiar noise of a smoke-filled hall: the hubbub of voices, the clink of mugs, the groaning of regulars. The air was thick as the St. Petersburg fog, saturated with the smells of yesterday's libations and today's hopes.
In the smoky half-light, through the clouds of tobacco smoke, Rasolko immediately noticed that at the corner table, under a cloudy mirror that reflected only the vague outlines of figures, sat his friends. They were an integral part of this place, like old furniture or stains on the walls.
Ilya Kovalyov, a bearded poet in a black velvet jacket, twirled the tip of his pen and tried to look liberal, as if he were the editor of some local opposition newspaper. He sat with his legs crossed, with an artistic air, and sipped his coffee as if it were divine nectar.
Grigory Shultz, skinny as a lamppost, nicknamed 'Pacer' in his circle for his unhurried but persistent manner of expressing his thoughts, sat down next to him. A cigarette was smoking in his teeth, and a slight stutter only added a special piquancy to his speech. He was telling something, actively gesticulating, and his shadow on the wall was darting about like a ghost.
The third, their mutual acquaintance, a stocky little fellow who looked like a cast-iron bollard in a port, wore a shabby velvet jacket that seemed to be a couple of sizes too big for him. Rasolko didn't know his name, but he knew his nickname - 'Pug'. He sat, frowning, and listened attentively to Schultz, occasionally nodding his large head.
Andrey Rasolko, throwing aside the heavy tavern door, stepped into the smoke-filled hall. The air, thick as meat broth, enveloped him immediately, saturating his frock coat with the smell of beer, fried fish and strong tobacco. The hall was buzzing with voices like a beehive, but the columnist, accustomed to this noise, immediately caught the familiar intonations of his friends.
"Hello, brothers!" shouted Rasolko, making his way between the tables where drunkards and workers sat, discussing their simple affairs.
They noticed him. Schultz, skinny as a pole, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, raised his head and, looking down at Pug, asked hesitantly:
"Well, P-p-pug, where did you come from this time? What incident did you sniff out?
Pug, a stocky little fellow in a shabby velvet jacket, raised his large, cast-iron-like head and growled, exhaling blue smoke:
"I was at a fire, Pacer. The warehouse burned to the ground. There was a column of smoke, I wish I knew why. And where have you been? I haven't seen you for a long time."
Schultz, fiddling with his cigarette, answered, drawing out the words like chewing gum:
"Just from the c-c-court. There was a case there, brothers. One... Oh, look at him, he was sentenced to t-t-ten years. For what? For... Oh, it doesn't matter. For words, apparently."
Ilya Kovalev, a bearded poet in a black velvet jacket, seemed not to notice the conversation, adjusted his gold pince-nez on his nose and, raising his eyes to the sooty ceiling, began to recite Blok's verse, theatrically stretching out the words:
"'Behind the dark distance of the city the white ice was lost...'"
"Your Blok again, Pacer!" interrupted Pug, wincing as if he had swallowed a lemon. "Why are you dragging him around like a cat by the tail? His brain has probably gone sideways from this city darkness! For him, the ice is always white, and the distance is black. Soon he himself will disappear into that distance, like that man in the ice hole!"
"Ugh, damn it!" spat Schultz, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Blok, he's probably for the young ladies from the Institute for Noble Maidens who dream of being refined. And here we have life, you know? Hungry, angry, and with vodka on the side! What "urban darkness"? And where did he get that "one burning eye"? He must have gotten his sight from a hangover! He's a weirdo starting with the letter "M", by God!
Ilya, as if not hearing their barbs, only slightly moved his shoulder, as if driving away annoying flies, and continued with feigned pathos:
"...'A man rose up from the darkness towards me. Hiding his face from me'..."
Rasolko, meanwhile, was looking around the room. His gaze slid over familiar faces and suddenly lingered. A little further from their table, closer to the wall, sat a stranger. Young, with a faded face and a dark gaze in which wariness and stubborn concentration coexisted. He sat quietly, almost unnoticed, as if not wanting to attract attention to himself.
Ilya, interrupting his verse in mid-sentence, irritably waved his hand towards the stranger, as if he were an annoying obstacle to his poetic impulse.
"Who is this?" asked Rasolko, nodding his head.
"Ah, it's..." Ilya drawled, grimacing, "it's the student, Dmitry Byakin."
He appeared here, as if from underground, and he keeps trying to listen to what we're chatting about. He's probably composing his own poem about how the 'azure dream of heaven' capsized into dirty water.
Rasolko took a closer look. The guy's hair was neatly combed, which was rare for a student, and his gaze was too confident, even bold, for a man who had just entered the circle of such eminent literary figures. He sat quietly, almost motionless, as if he had just buttoned all the buttons on his uniform and was waiting for the command. The feuilletonist smiled inwardly: this Byakin did not look like an ordinary, downtrodden student. There was some kind of inner steel in him, hidden under a mask of modesty. And he was certainly far from Blok's 'azure dreams'.
Andrei Rasolko, having settled himself at the table and ordered his morning coffee out of habit, which smelled of burnt beans and hope, did not particularly listen to the general hubbub. He was here not only to listen, but also to tell stories. And he loved to tell stories, for a story, a good story, was more precious to a feuilletonist than gold.
"Well, brothers, listen", Rasolko began, taking a sip from his mug. "A story, as they say, from the life of the fleet. On one ship, I won't name which one, so as not to compromise, there was a priest. He was so tall, with a square face, that the sailors nicknamed him Hippopotamus behind his back."
Ilya, the bearded poet, chuckled, adjusting his pince-nez.
"Hippopotamus? Ha! No doubt a lover of hearty meals and spiritual conversations under the wing of Bacchus."
"Exactly!" Rasolko nodded. "This man, our Hippopotamus, loved to have a drink, that's true. And even more he loved to talk about matters of faith with the team. To direct his soul, so to speak, to the light.
Schultz, skinny as a lamppost, choked on his cigarette.
"And what about the sailors, what about the sailors? They probably had questions not about the resurrection, but about where the rum comes from and where the wages go."
"Exactly!" Rasolko confirmed, and his eyes sparkled. "Sailors, I must say, are an observant people. And they asked such questions that our Hippopotamus often got lost. Apparently, he wasn't very good with words, when it wasn't according to regulations."
Ilya, grinning into his beard, interjected:
"Well, such a priest must have looked ridiculous. No wonder the sailors laughed. Probably, out of despair, he began to mumble something ecclesiastical under his breath, warmed up by rum, like a singing deacon!"
Rasolko, smiling slightly, continued, enjoying the reaction of the audience.
"Once, brothers, the sailors pressed him so hard with questions about all sorts of miracles, and about the hellish cauldron, that our Hippopotamus couldn't stand it. He got sweaty, turned purple, and then roared: "Your mother, damned cabbage stump!" and darted into the wardroom, like a cockroach from the light."
Schultz slapped his hand on the table and burst out laughing.
"Ha! Typical behavior for those who can't handle uncomfortable questions! Instead of arguments - swearing, instead of a sermon - running away! The newspapers, if they found out about this, would probably invent that the priest also played gambling with the sailors, and lost the bet on the lifeboats. 'Our pastor lost in preference!' that would be the headline!"
Byakin, who had been sitting silently, merely nodded, thoughtfully fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth, as if he were calculating something in his mind. A shadow of understanding flashed in his eyes.
"Well, so", continued Rasolko, leaning forward. "After that incident, our Hippopotamus decided not to engage in arguments with the sailors about the divine anymore. He resigned himself, it seems. Instead, on holidays, he began handing out sheets of paper with texts from monasteries to the crew. About saints, about sins, about the salvation of the soul."
Ilya, perking up, rubbed his hands.
"This is already more interesting! A brilliant idea! What fun! I can imagine how this Hippopotamus, shining with piety, thinks that he is bringing light to people, but in fact..."
"But in reality, the sailors, of course, laughed", Rasolko interrupted him, "and thought about how to wean him off this habit. Well, you see, these righteous readings do not suit them. And so one clever orderly, a quick, clever lad, came up with a plan. On the next holiday, he quietly pulled the sheets of paper from under the priest's cassock."
Ilya, anticipating the outcome, exclaimed:
"And replaced it, right? Replaced it with something else? What a move!"
Rasolko nodded, and his eyes sparkled mischievously.
"Exactly! He replaced them with others, not at all spiritual in content. What kind - we'll talk about that later. And our Hippopotamus, warmed up in the wardroom, didn't notice anything. He came out to the sailors, shining like a polished samovar, and began handing out leaflets, calling on everyone to read and follow what was written, rejoicing that the team, in his opinion, had turned to righteousness."
Schultz, laughing so hard that his skinny chest shook, almost dropped his cigarette.
"Now this sounds like a joke! I can imagine: a priest with an important air hands out texts that are not at all about what he thinks! "Ave Maria, go and read about..." - and then something like this, obscene! The newspapermen, brothers, would have made a whole story out of this! 'How the Holy Father sowed discord!' - that would be a headline!"
Byakin, smiling slightly, remained silent, but his fingers ran faster across the tablecloth, as if he himself was already going through these "non-spiritual" sheets in his mind.
Rasolko, enjoying the effect produced, continued:
"Well, that's it. The sailors, having received the sheets of paper, ran around the deck. Some to the bow, some to the stern, and began to read aloud. And the text, brothers, spoke about the injustice of the authorities, about how they oppress the common people, about the right to freedom and all sorts of things that make the bosses' hair stand on end!"
The pug growled approvingly.
"Well, well, that's our way of saying it! So it wasn't in vain that we tried!
"And then", Rasolko continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "a midshipman was passing by. He noticed a piece of paper on one of the sailors. He snatched it, his eyes popped out of his head! And he started screaming: "What is this?! Where did it come from?! Explain yourself, you scoundrel!" The sailor calmly, without any ulterior motive, answered: 'So, your honor, my father gave it to me. He hands it out to everyone and tells them to read it'."
Ilya, his eyes wide open, put his hand to his mouth.
"Oh-oh-oh! Brilliant! The newspapermen would certainly have painted the priest as an instigator of unrest, who under the guise of piety was preparing a revolution! The plot, according to him, would be suitable for some ballad, although not to his taste, for Blok, of course, was above such base themes."
"The midshipman looked around," Rasolko continued, "and there the whole crew was reading the same thing! One was muttering something about the Tsar, another about the generals, a third was pounding his fist on the deck! The midshipman turned purple as a boiled lobster and rushed into the wardroom shouting about a mutiny, blaming the priest!"
Schultz, shaking his head, said sympathetically:
"Poor Hippopotamus! Wanting to save souls, he ended up before a tribunal! The newspapers, by God, would have blown up the story of a revolutionary in a cassock who, together with the sailors, starts mutinies on ships!"
Byakin chuckled quietly, but remained silent, only tugging at the tablecloth harder, as if it were the threads of fate. Rasolko finished, sipping his now cold coffee.
"So what happened? The officers, hearing about the mutiny, rushed onto the deck with revolvers drawn, and the commander, stumbling, ran ahead, almost knocking down everyone around him. The priest, not suspecting anything, handed out the last leaflets, saying: 'I see, brothers, you have turned to righteousness, you have taken the true path!' The commander, flying up to him, accused him of incitement and immediately ordered his arrest. They tied up the priest, and he only shook his head in fear, unable to explain anything, only blinked his eyes like a fish thrown ashore. A search of the priest's cabin yielded nothing but books and spiritual leaflets. It was soon realized that this was a joke by the orderly. The priest was released, but the crew began to search, and the orderly, of course, was flogged to the hilt. The sailors just laughed, pleased with how cleverly they had fooled the priest. So much for the sermon!"
Having finished, Rasolko leaned back in his chair and, smiling contentedly, winked at Dmitry Byakin. He sat there, still as reserved and neat as a porcelain figurine that had miraculously found itself in a smoky tavern. Andrei pretended that he was simply maintaining a casual conversation, but there was a subtle, barely perceptible provocation in his voice.
"Tell me, my dear fellow", Rasolko began, taking a sip from his mug and pretending not to care about the answer. "You, young man, probably think about the fate of the fatherland? Eh? What are the young people thinking now? About the Tsar, about the people, about this damned war? Do you, the new generation, have your own voice? Or is there only silence, like in church when the deacon is sleeping?"
Byakin answered quietly, looking somewhere to the side, at the greasy wall of the tavern, where a yellowed poster of a circus performance hung. His words sounded muffled, but distinct.
"War... Well, it's a grief, of course. Everyone gets it. Both the soldiers and their families. And the people... The people suffer, as always. What else can you say?"
He spoke simply but carefully, as if he were weighing each word on apothecary scales, afraid to let slip too much. Rasolko smiled to himself. "Something is fishy here," he thought. "Too smooth. Too correct." The experienced eye of a columnist sensed a catch.
He continued, as if in jest, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, although there was already an unimaginable din around.
"Well, I've heard", said Rasolko, winking, "that the Socialist Revolutionaries, those same revolutionaries, are posting their leaflets in taverns. They're preaching, it seems, a new order. Isn't that student one of their company, by any chance? Forgive me for being so direct, but your appearance, my dear fellow, is very... Very solid. You don't look like a simple reader of novels."
Byakin tensed slightly. His fingers, lying on the tablecloth, trembled slightly. But then he smiled, as if surprised by the stupidity of the question, and shook his head.
"What are you saying, what are you saying!" he said, trying to give his voice a slight mockery. "I only read books, I read a lot. And politics... Politics is not for me. It is for those with round heads, and not for me, a wretched person."
But something flashed in his eyes - not fear, no, but caution, cunning, animal-like. As if he realized that he was being watched, that his words were being caught on the fly. Rasolko, sipping his now cold coffee, remarked:
"Well, well. That's the kind of caution that sometimes gives you away, my dear. Sometimes silence is louder than any words."
Ilya and Shultz, carried away by their conversation about the new play, laughed something there, playing along with the general tone, but Rasolko did not listen to them. He was completely focused on Byakin. This guy did not fit in with the usual picture of a student oppositionist. Too precise, too careful in his movements and words, as if in a mask that he did not take off even in the tavern.
Rasolko decided to change tactics. He softened his tone, as if he was asking in a friendly manner, trying to find an approach to him.
"What books do you read, if it's not a secret?" he asked, almost paternally. "Gogol, Dostoevsky, or perhaps the new-fangled French who write only about debauchery?"
Byakin perked up. A spark appeared in his eyes, and he leaned forward a little.
"Of course I respect Gogol," he replied, and there was a sincere note in his voice. "'Taras Bulba' is a thing! Power! But I'm also interested in journalism about ordinary people. About their lives, about their needs. How people live, what they breathe."
He spoke evenly, but with a tense gentleness, as if arguing with himself, fighting the desire to say something more. Rasolko slapped the table, feigning delight.
"Oh! Journalism is a necessary thing, I myself am writing an article about how the people are experiencing the war. Not about generals and admirals, but about ordinary people who chew bread and shed tears. And what are they whispering about on Sennaya now, huh? What are they talking about there?"
Schulz and Kovalev, interrupting each other, were arguing heatedly about a new play that was being shown at the Alexandrinsky Theatre, and their voices were the background to this quiet, tense conversation. Rasolko spoke slowly and in a low voice, like one of his own, like a person he could trust.
Byakin paused, as if collecting his thoughts.
"Nothing special," he replied, and his gaze slid over Fyrya, who seemed to be dozing at the next table, clutching his glass. "They grumble about the prices, of course. About the soldiers going to the front, about the rations that have become too small. As always, basically."
He said everything correctly, everything was within the bounds of what was permitted, but Rasolko knew: those who keep silent too correctly almost always hide something. And this student, Dmitry Byakin, was one of them. Behind his calm manner one could sense some kind of secret, which the feuilletonist, like an experienced hunter, dreamed of tracking down.
Andrei Rasolko, leaning back in his chair, watched Dmitry Byakin attentively. He continued to tug at the edge of the tablecloth, and in his silent concentration the columnist sensed something more than just youthful thoughtfulness. The conversation about the "correct" silence hung in the air, unresolved and ringing.
At that very moment the door of the tavern slammed, announcing the arrival of new customers. Two people staggered into the room, staggering from the sudden movement. The first was Artem Starikov, broad-shouldered, disheveled, as if he had hastily jumped out of bed, forgetting to comb his hair. He was followed by Denis Terekhov, thin, with a lively, slightly twitching gaze that darted from side to side, as if looking for a way out of a labyrinth.
They immediately, without looking around, headed straight for the table where Byakin was sitting. Starikov, approaching, measured Dmitry with a stern look and, as if reproaching, muttered:
"Where have you been, Dmitry? We were already thinking that you were looking for new brochures at the baker's."
But, noticing the stranger - Rasolko - at the table, he stopped mid-sentence, his gaze becoming wary. Terekhov, squinting, measured Rasolko from head to toe, as if trying to decide who he was and why he was sitting there, as if he sensed something was wrong.
Rasolko, without waiting for questions, politely stood up. He knew how important it was to relieve tension.
"Rasolko, Andrei Stepanovich," he introduced himself, bowing slightly. "A feuilletonist, writing for Vedomosti. Forgive me for doing this without an invitation."
He paused, smiling.
"Well, I heard out of the corner of my ear that you, gentlemen, are supposedly from Minsk. Or am I mistaken? - He pretended to look for confirmation. "And I thought, it would be interesting to know what people there say about this war... Oh, about our damned war. How are you living there, on the outskirts?
Terekhov and Starikov exchanged glances. Their gazes clearly showed wariness. Byakin, seizing the moment, coughed, as if letting his men know that everything was fine, and that this stranger was, apparently, not dangerous.
Rasolko, sensing their wariness, began to speak more freely, with a slight laugh, trying to look as harmless as possible.
"Don't be afraid, gentlemen! I'm not from the Okhrana, God forbid! And I'm not up to denunciations. As they say, I need folk tales. Life, color. Do you understand? After all, readers don't want your battleships or generals' reports. They want how people think and talk. Like in villages, like in taverns. The salt of the earth, so to speak."
Starikov chuckled, either in surprise or with a slight smile, as if evaluating his words.
"There may be some stories," he said, and his voice, although rough, sounded a little softer. He sat back in his chair, like a man who is ready to listen, but does not yet fully trust.
Terekhov still looked around warily, his twitching gaze continued to dart around, but he also sat down and, without saying a word, asked the waiter for some tea.
Rasolko, as if casually, threw out a new question, trying to give it the most innocent appearance.
"And how are things in Minsk with the Tsar, if it's not a secret? Or here, on Sennaya, how do people reason? Well, just for the sake of material, without names, of course. Just people's thoughts."
Byakin, emboldened as if sensing the danger had passed, raised his voice slightly and declared:
"What's the fuss? The people see the Tsar as distant. And war... War's for the generals, not for the common folk. War is blood and hunger."
Starikov, seated across from him, leaned back in his chair, his broad-shouldered frame appearing even more imposing in the smoky dimness of the tavern. He spoke cautiously, weighing each word, but his rough, sandpaper-like voice betrayed an unexpected passion:
"Bread is getting more expensive, that's true. They keep drafting more soldiers, but for what? All for the generals and their medals. But I say, brothers," he lowered his voice, though his eyes blazed, "if only our science could leap forward - not to forge cannons, but to fly to the stars! Imagine new elements for Mendeleev's table, ones that could carry a rocket to the Moon! Not to wallow in mud and blood, but to soar upward, to the heavens! If only our scientists didn't serve the Tsar, but worked for the people, for the future! Look at what Jules Verne wrote - a projectile to the Moon, while we're still drowning in trenches and orders. Science must pull us out of this darkness, toward the light of the stars!"
Terekhov, sitting nearby, froze, his jittery gaze darting to Starikov as if he'd crossed an invisible line. Byakin coughed, as if trying to smother the echo of those words, but it was too late - Rasolko, squinting, was already catching every word like fish in murky water. The gears in the journalist's mind began to turn: "Stars? New elements? This isn't just daydreaming - this is sedition! To say such things in front of everyone, in a tavern where the Okhrana's ears stretch longer than Nevsky Prospect! This isn't a column - it's a denunciation writing itself!"
Rasolko, hiding a predatory smile behind his cup of cold coffee, nodded as if in agreement, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. He could already see the headline: 'How Petersburg Dreamers Fantasize About Stars and Forget the Tsar'. Or better yet, an anonymous note to the Okhrana: 'One Artem Starikov, in the 'Zolotoy Yakor' tavern, spouted seditious talk about science without the Tsar and flights to the stars'. In wartime, with the autocracy teetering, such words from a burly fellow with fiery eyes could cost him hard labor. And Rasolko, a skilled player, knew: one well-placed rumor meant a paycheck, and one well-crafted denunciation meant fame in certain circles.
"Well, well, Mr. Starikov," Rasolko drawled, feigning admiration. "To the stars, you say? Straight out of Jules Verne! And what," he lowered his voice, as if joking, "are these not the dreams of the SRs, eh? Of freedom, of science without oppression?" He winked, but his gaze was cold as ice on the Neva.
Starikov, missing the trap, chuckled but grew more cautious, as if sensing something amiss:
"SRs? Nothing of the sort, Andrei Stepanovich! It's just the soul yearning to move forward, not rot in trenches. Science - it's for everyone, not just the nobles and generals."
Terekhov, nervously tapping his fingers on the table, shot a quick glance at Byakin, as if seeking support. Byakin, his face impassive, gave a slight nod, but a flicker of unease passed through his eyes. Rasolko, catching this tension, mentally rubbed his hands: "Oh, what a catch! Not just students, but ones with ideas!"
Ilya Kovalev, who had been silent until now, adjusted his gold pince-nez and, as if to lighten the mood, interjected with mock grandiosity:
"'And I knew not when or where it appeared and vanished...'" he quoted Blok, but Shults, choking on his cigarette, cut him off:
"Huh, Ilya, enough of your Blok! Better write a poem about Starikov's stars than bore us with that nonsense about 'one burnin' eye'!" He laughed, but his laughter was nervous, as if he too felt the air in the tavern growing heavy.
Rasolko, unwilling to lose the thread, shifted tactics. He leaned back in his chair, as if relaxing, and casually reached for the fresh newspaper Kovalev had left on the table, its scent of printer's ink mingling with the latest gossip. He did so with deliberate nonchalance, as if bored, but his eyes - those of an experienced news hunter - had already locked onto his prey.
"Oh, my friends!" he exclaimed, as if he had just stumbled upon something amazing. "Look at this!" He pointed to a small article on the newspaper. "They write about some American. About York. I never heard of him before. I'm surprised, by God!"
Rasolko raised his gaze to the students, in which sly lights were dancing.
"So his name is York. Ha-ha! Like the city of New York, just think about it! It's written right there: 'Eugene S. York'. A lawyer, they say. And they also write that he throws money around like a lord. Well, a bourgeois, what can you expect from him. They say he throws a feast on Kirochnaya!" He shook his head, feigning surprise. "Just think, they say his daughter is celebrating nine years, and inviting everyone in sight. All good people, it's written right there! What free morals, tsk-tsk! Wouldn't that interest the gentlemen students?"
Byakin did not comment on the question, but his eyebrows noticeably rose, as if in silent question. Starikov chuckled, looking away.
"The rich, they have a mind of their own," he muttered. "What does that matter to us? They have their own life, we have ours. We need a penny for food, not for overseas feasts."
And Terekhov, still wary, his twitching gaze darting around the room, noticed, with a barely noticeable hesitation:
"Americans... They say they love to show off. He's probably bragging. So that everyone can see how generous he is."
And yet something trembled in his voice - Rasolko caught it. Discontent, yes, but underneath it - curiosity. And curiosity, as we know, is the engine of progress, even if this progress leads to someone else's feast.
Rasolko grinned and winked like an old devil who knows all human weaknesses.
"Show or not, the food is free!" He slapped his knee. "And for an article - a godsend! Bourgeois, feast, Russian people, all mixed up! It will be a perfect feuilleton! 'How an overseas gentleman cheered the Russian soul!' now that's a headline!"
He leaned forward, lowering his voice, as if sharing a great secret.
"I propose, gentlemen, that we go together. I'll come myself, you say. It'll be nice for you, and I'll get some material. And then, you see, new topics for conversation will be found."
Byakin coughed, as if he wanted to clarify whether there was a catch in this generous offer, and, turning away, said:
"Let's think about it."
But his gaze was already sliding over the lines of the announcement, greedily absorbing every word: "Eugene S. York, a well-known lawyer from America, invites all good people to his daughter's birthday party, Kirochnaya, May 18, noon." Rasolko was already figuring out how he would wrap everything up in an article - an American, a feast, Russian people, life. Of course, he did not know that Gene York was throwing a feast not for the sake of brilliance, but to distract his daughter from grief - the governess, almost a mother to her, had died in mid-April, but the bitterness of loss still poisoned Delia's heart like poison.
He slapped the table, cheerfully, decisively, with the air of a man who has everything under control and calculated a hundred steps ahead.
"So, here's how it is! Tomorrow, at eleven in the morning, at the corner of Haymarket, I'll pick you up, and we'll go to York together. So, what's the deal?"
Starikov laughed, his hoarse laughter echoing throughout the tavern. Terekhov, after thinking for a moment, as if weighing the pros and cons, nodded. And Byakin, after a pause, as if demonstrating his independence, muttered:
"Okay, they'll see."
Rasolko was pleased. The trio of students had taken the bait, and he could already see a bold headline, striking like a whip: 'An American Feast in the Russian Capital'. Of course, he wouldn't write favorably about the American; he was a 'bourgeois', and Rasolko was a feuilletonist who always stood with the 'oppressed people'. And if the students happened to get caught in the crossfire - well, it was like killing two birds with one stone. Although, a little part of him twitched with a thought: what if their wariness wasn't simple shyness, but something far more serious than his feuilleton? What if he wasn't drawing them into a feast, but into something more dangerous?
Rasolko stood up and left the tavern. The spring wind, carrying the smells of the Neva and dampness, cooled his face a bit, but did nothing to cool his cunning mind. As he walked toward the office of the 'Sankt-Peterburgskie Vedomosti', he carried a folder of drafts, but his thoughts were far from the paperwork. In his head, a new and far more alluring plan was spinning like the gears of a complex machine.
'The Yorks' Feast!' The idea shimmered with possibilities. He intended to use this event not just as a journalist, but with a deviousness worthy of Machiavelli himself, though in a Russian, tavern-style execution.
He would gather as much gossip as possible, find out about these 'American customs', which were undoubtedly nothing but lavish spending and revelry. And at the same time, he would keep a close eye on Byakin and his circle. Rasolko squinted cunningly. Something in their eyes, in the way they carried themselves, suggested they weren't just disgruntled students grumbling about the autocracy. No, it was something deeper. Something that could become a real 'explosive charge' under the seemingly peaceful life of St. Petersburg. And he, Andrei Rasolko, intended to be the one to set it off.
Rasolko, cynical and pragmatic to the core, saw York only as a convenient target. 'A feast on Kirochnaya!' - a perfect jab at their bourgeois affectations. While Russian blood was being spilled in the war, they were throwing feasts, as if they didn't care about the honor of the state. He could already imagine how he would 'put one over on' these foreigners, mocking their ostentatious generosity while highlighting their detachment from real Russian problems. 'An American Feast During a Russian Plague' - that was a headline that could rock all of St. Petersburg!
And at the same time... at the same time, the students. Byakin, Starikov, and Terekhov were the perfect tools for a double strike. In Starikov's words about flying to the stars and science for the people, Rasolko saw not just dreams, but 'sedition' that, in a time of war, could be seen as a call to rebellion. Their presence at the feast, especially after such a 'free-spirited' conversation, could be a pretext for a much more serious investigation. In one fell swoop, Rasolko would not only get sharp material but also, quite possibly, eliminate potential rivals for the title of 'people's champion', a role he fancied for himself. After all, in Russia in 1904, any hint of dissent could be interpreted as a revolt. And Rasolko, a skilled player willing to gamble with other people's fates, was ready to take advantage of it.
He quickened his pace, his lips stretching into a thin, almost predatory smile. Tomorrow promised to be rich with events. And for a feuilletonist, as everyone knew, the more scandals, the better. He could already smell the fresh printing ink and the future fees.