At this time, the main heroine of the occasion finally deigned to open hers. The sun was already slanting down on the windowsill, drawing golden stripes on the floor, and dust particles were swirling in them, thin, weightless, like little ballerinas. The air in the room was warm, very quiet, as if no one was breathing. Outside the window, the birds were singing loudly, ringingly and carefree, and their ringing voices seemed too joyful for such a quiet, almost hidden morning.
Delia's room, usually so bright and elegant, was today filled with a soft, golden light. On the snow-white walls, where her own drawings hung - awkward but bright watercolors with houses and flowers - sunbeams were now dancing. On the chair next to the bed, her favorite dress was neatly folded, the same one with blue ribbons that she wore to dinner yesterday. And on the chest of drawers was a box given to her by her father, with carved birds, and a small porcelain figurine of a ballerina that Karen brought from Paris. By the window, on the windowsill, stood a row of her books, some of them already read to holes, and the pages were wrinkled from frequent turning. The curtains, light, almost weightless, swayed slightly from a barely perceptible draft, bringing from the street the smell of damp earth and blossoming buds.
At first, Delia smiled. Well, almost smiled. Birthday! It's a holiday! The buns are probably ready by now, and the ribbons are hung everywhere, just like she likes. Everything is as usual. If only she could get dressed quickly and run downstairs, and there... And there they are waiting!
She stretched. Her nightgown rode up, revealing her skinny knees. Delia yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. And suddenly she felt how the hair on the back of her neck had matted slightly during the night. She ran her fingers through the tangled strands.
"Oh, my God", she whispered under her breath", this is a nightmare! How can I go like this? Well, and then they'll say I'm a slob. Lisa will definitely say so.
And then, like a fly in the ear, yesterday came. Slowly, like a dream that doesn't want to go away. The kitchen. And Xander there. How he sat, and she pressed herself against him. And how he was silent, and his shoulder was so... So strong. And then... And then the words. Those same stupid ones that she herself said.
"I love you."
She didn't want it! Honestly. It just popped out. Like a frog jumped out of a swamp - and now it's sitting there, jumping around the room. They made everything... Not right. Everything, everything, everything. Like a book you're reading, and suddenly there's a new page, completely unfamiliar. And it's not scary at all, no! Just awkward. So what now?
Delia shifted on the bed. She looked at her doll lying on the nightstand. Josephine had given it to her when she was six. The doll was beautiful, but now... It seemed alien. As if it wasn't hers anymore. Had she grown up or something? And the doll, with its round glass eyes, seemed so small, so naive, as if the girl who played with it had stayed in another day, in another life.
Oh, but I don't want to get up. And I don't want to go to the window. Let the dust particles dance, let them. And she... She needs to lie down for now. To think. If only she knew what to do with this "I love you" now. It's just sitting in my head like a pebble in a shoe, it's in the way. And I can't throw it away. She ran her hand through her hair again. "What if Xander... What if he thinks?" she whispered, and then blushed. "Oh, that's nonsense! He's a boy, he doesn't understand anything!"
She suddenly imagined Xander coming with a bouquet of flowers, her hair disheveled, and herself sleepy and awkward. Delia frowned. No, that wasn't right. It was her birthday!
Suddenly the door to the room swung open with a light thud, and her mother, Karen, appeared on the threshold. Karen's face was lit up with a forced, almost theatrical gaiety, which she seemed to have put on like a mask. It was obvious that every laugh, every bright intonation was difficult for her, because the house had recently lost Josephine, and a subtle, barely perceptible sadness was still in the air.
"What is this? - Karen exclaimed, throwing up her hands and feigning such exaggerated surprise that Delia almost laughed. "Our birthday girl is still in bed? As if she really were a princess with a special royal regime! And I, silly girl, thought you had already jumped up and were waiting for a festive breakfast! Pelageya and I made you some cinnamon pretzels there, finger-licking good!
Delia wrinkled her delicate nose.
"Well, Mom", she drawled capriciously, pouting her lips, "it's not my fault that the sun wakes you up so late! And the pretzels... They've probably already cooled down. All the tastiest ones have probably already been eaten without me!"
Gene appeared behind Karen. He held a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, from which came a tart, invigorating smell. His eyebrow was raised in his usual sarcastic manner, and mischievous lights danced in his eyes. He smelled of something bitter - menthol, cigars, just like an important gentleman who had just come in from the street and had not yet managed to shake off the bustle of St. Petersburg.
"In our house, Deedle", Gene noted, entering the room, and his voice was softly but good-naturedly mocking, "it is customary to get up at eight. This is not a palace where princesses are served on lace pillows. But if we are having a ball today, let there be a royal awakening. After all, nine years is not every day, right? You can sleep until lunch, if you really want to! Even until dinner! Let Pelageya complain later that the pigeons ate her pretzels!"
"Oh, Dad!" snorted Delia, pretending to be indignant. "Of course, pigeons! And you, too, I bet! You always grab the tastiest ones! And then you say: "Deedle, you're too slow!"
Her mother, smiling with the corner of her lips, came up to the bed. She leaned over and kissed Delia on the forehead, too quickly to be out of habit, almost mechanically, but with unfailing tenderness. Karen smelled of almond soap and a light, barely perceptible haze of morning anxiety, which she tried to hide behind her ostentatious cheerfulness. Delia did not answer, only nodded slightly, turning her face to the wall. The words did not come, they were stuck somewhere deep inside, like those same "I love you" from yesterday that just did not want to leave her head.
"Oh, come on, my dear," Karen said tenderly, adjusting the blanket. "I put the best things aside for you. Buns, juice, and your favorite chocolate. Just get up quickly!"
And Gene was especially animated. He placed his cup on the nightstand, next to Delia's doll. His dark blue coat was perfectly pressed, his hair was slicked back, not a single strand sticking out. It was obvious that he was in the best of spirits, and even the morning sun seemed to shine especially for him.
"Well, birthday girl, get ready!" he announced, rubbing his hands like a magician before a show. "There will be a real feast tonight! Candles, music, even Jake will drop by, he promised to be there! And..." he lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper, squinting his eyes, as if sharing a great secret, "and there will be a surprise. O-o-o, what a surprise! But, of course, I will not tell you what it is! Let it remain a little mystery."
"A surprise?" Delia forgot about her hair and the damned words in an instant. Her eyes widened. "What surprise? Dad, please tell me! Please! Just a tiniest hint! Is it something big? Or small? Is it... Is it a doll? Or... Or a little horse?" She sat up a little, shrugging her shoulders, and suddenly smiled. For real. There he was, her dad, who always knew how to cheer her up.
"Uh-uh, no, my dear", Gene drawled conspiratorially, shaking his finger at her. "That's what a surprise is for, not to reveal it ahead of time! Otherwise, all the intrigue will be lost! Let this be my little gift to you - the languor of anticipation! But you'll be thinking, guessing, making guesses all day! It's more fun than just receiving it!"
The word "surprise" echoed in Delia's head not dully, but loudly, like a small bell. She put her feet on the cool wooden floor. Although for some reason she was not completely happy, but this surprise... What was it? A good one? Or one that would make her want to cry again? She suddenly remembered Lisa Roselli and her "kind" smiles, and for a moment a shadow ran across her face. But then curiosity got the better of her.
"Well, Dad!" Delia drawled again, but with a smile. "Well, at least give him a hint! Mom, just tell him!"
Karen just shook her head, smiling.
"Your dad likes riddles, honey. Wait a bit."
Delia sighed, but not so capriciously, but rather with feigned disappointment. Well, if it was a surprise, then it was a surprise. She could already imagine what it could be: a new dress, a picture book, or maybe even a real carriage with horses! Although no, a carriage was too much. But one could dream, right?
Meanwhile, the mother had taken care of the dress, carefully laying it out on the chair, smoothing out every fold. The fabric was soft, cream-colored, with the finest lace along the collar and sleeves, and looked as if it had come straight from the pages of a fashion magazine. It smelled of lavender and something elusively foreign.
"Here, my dear," said Karen, changing her voice slightly, as if she were embarrassed. "This is a gift from Mademoiselle Lisa. She chose it herself, said it was very beautiful and would suit you. And the lace, you see, is handmade. French!"
And then Delia shuddered. Lisa's name sounded like someone had abruptly thrown open a window into bad weather, and a cold, unpleasant wind had burst into her small, cozy world. The smile slid off her face. She turned abruptly to the window, her eyes darkening, as if storm clouds had gathered in them, foreshadowing an evil change. In the sunbeam that had recently been dancing on the floor, the dust particles suddenly seemed not like ballerinas, but small, angry midges.
"I won't wear it," she said quietly, but so firmly that her voice, usually clear and girlish, sounded somehow harshly adult. There was no usual capricious note in it, only cold determination.
Gene, accustomed to children's whims, tried to object, as if justifying himself before an invisible judge:
"But, Deedle... Lisa tried so hard! She cares about you so much, she came at a difficult time for us, when... When it was very hard for all of us. She's like... Like an older sister to you!"
"She came after Josephine died!" Delia interrupted, turning sharply. Her eyes were brighter than when she had spoken of the pony. "After Josephine... She..." Delia swallowed, and a thin tremor ran down her thin shoulders. "Lisa is not her! Lisa is not Josephine! She never will be!"
Gene fell silent, as if he had been slapped in the face. The girl spoke calmly, almost coldly, but in each word there was not a childish resentment, but something else, something deep and very personal, something that went beyond ordinary disobedience. She did not scream, did not stamp her feet, but her calm was much more terrible than any hysterical crying.
"She's rude, Dad!" Delia continued, her voice breaking, not from tears but from the barely contained indignation that was rising from the very depths of her small but proud heart. "She's fake! Her smiles are like oil stains on water, they seem pretty, but then they make you sick. She looks down on everyone! Even you! You, Mom! Can't you see? She thinks she's better than everyone! And she looks at me like I'm... Like I'm worthless!"
Karen called out her name sharply, her voice shaking with a mixture of anger and confusion.
"Deedle! What kind of words are these! This is indecent! You shouldn't talk about Mademoiselle Lisa like that! She's our guest!"
But Delia was no longer afraid. Her small chin jutted forward stubbornly. She looked straight into her mother's eyes, those frightened, anxious eyes, and in that moment she seemed older than her nine years, as if some ancient, inherited power had awakened within her.
"I will not smile at someone who humiliates my friend!" she said hotly, and her cheeks flushed brightly, as if she were not a girl, but a small but brave warrior. "Even if he wears white gloves and a lace dress! Even if she says the most beautiful words! I can't!"
The mother turned pale. She turned away sharply, as if to straighten the folds of her dress, but her lips trembled, betraying the emotion she had been trying so hard to hide. She knew it was not just the dress, but something much more serious, the invisible wall that had grown between them after Josephine had left.
Gene, who had been standing on the sidelines watching this sudden and heated confrontation, finally cleared his throat. His sarcastic smile faded a little.
"Well, Deedle", he drawled conciliatorily, and there were notes of weariness in his voice, "if you don't want this dress, don't wear it. After all, we're not having a ball here, but a family dinner. We're not forcing you. Choose what you like. Just not a school uniform, otherwise they'll say that our birthday girl didn't dress up at all, but came straight from classes!"
Delia nodded, not in response to them, but to her thoughts. She was far away. Somewhere where the warmth of yesterday's touch was still there. Xander. He heard. He said nothing, only held her hand. And that touch, strong, as if frightened, but so familiar, giving confidence, remained in her memory as the most precious treasure.
She thought she wasn't ashamed. Even if someone laughed, whispered behind her back. Even if Lisa Roselli looked down on her again, with her feigned pity. Love isn't a servant, you don't give it orders. It isn't scheduled between arithmetic and music, and it doesn't care about other people's views, about the rules of decency, about all these adult games. It just is, and that's enough.
Meanwhile, Mother spoke again, more softly, as if thawing out after a sudden snowstorm. Her voice became quieter, almost pleading. It sounded less like a request than a tired plea for peace.
"Okay, Deedle. If that's what you want... Let you be yourself today. Just... Just be kind to Lisa, please. Even today, on your birthday. Do it for me, darling."
Delia looked up at her. Her gaze was calm, not childishly meaningful, and there was no whim or resentment in it, only a simple statement of fact that sounded much more weighty than any reproach.
"I'm always myself, Mom," she said, and the words sounded like a sentence. "It's just that not everyone likes it."
At that moment, Lisa Roselli appeared on the threshold, having precisely measured out the necessary pause, as if she was waiting for her entrance on stage and choosing the most effective moment. In her hands she held a rather large box, carefully wrapped in shiny gift paper and tied with a satin ribbon. The box seemed to emit a barely perceptible aroma of expensive French perfume. On her face there was a polite, slightly strained smile, in which something predatory, sharp, almost like a thin razor, ready to cut off any awkwardness or inappropriateness, still glided.
"Happy birthday, young lady!" Lisa sang, and her voice was sweet as honey, but this cloying quality gave off something unnatural, artificial. She came closer, slightly bowing her head, and held out the box. "My modest gift to you. I hope you like it."
Delia didn't even glance at the box, as if it were invisible. She only bowed her head slightly, expressing a formal, practiced gratitude, but her gaze slid past Lisa, as if she were an empty space, and rushed somewhere into the distance, out the window, to the gray roofs of Petersburg.
"Thank you," she said through her teeth, and the words sounded somehow alien, insincere. "But I don't accept gifts from strangers."
Karen threw up her hands, frightened, almost theatrically, as if Delia had done something irreparable that threatened to bring down the whole house of cards of decency.
"Deedle! What are you saying! It's Lisa! Mademoiselle Roselli!"
Gene, to everyone's surprise, suddenly grinned. A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes, and he turned to Karen, barely containing his smile.
"Well, my dear," he said casually, as if recalling something very old, "our Deedle's character is clearly forming. Just like your aunt in Ohio, remember? The one who threw the vicar out of the house because his moustache was too bushy and because, in her opinion, he didn't preach loud enough about the sins of gluttony."
Lisa continued to smile as if she had not heard anything, as if these words had not been thrown in her face, as if she were made of marble and not of flesh. Only her eyes narrowed slightly, and her thin lips pressed into a barely noticeable line. Her voice remained the same - soft, viscous, like honey melted in tea, but a steely note appeared in it, almost imperceptible, but all the more ominous because of it.
"Oh, the young lady is right," she cooed, slightly bowing her head, as if agreeing with an indisputable truth. "Real ladies certainly know that gifts are not the point. Only one thing is important - upbringing. A true lady values not the wrapping, but the nobility of the soul and impeccable manners. That's the basis, isn't it?"
Delia, without waiting for an answer, turned decisively and left the room. She did not look back, as if nothing was happening behind her that deserved her attention. Only over her shoulder, casually and without a single note of regret, she threw:
"I don't want to wait for you to go out. I'll wait until you leave my room."
The door closed behind her silently. Lisa remained standing with the box in her hands, motionless, like a shop-window doll, put on display in some expensive shop on Nevsky Prospect. Beautiful, flawless - and completely unnecessary at that moment, like a withered flower that never found its addressee. The smile froze on her face, turning into something resembling a grimace, like a mask grown to her skin.
Neither Karen nor Gene said a word. Karen looked away, as if the scene had never happened, as if it had vanished into thin air along with the dust particles carried away by the wind. Gene, slowly adjusting the collar of his coat as if it had suddenly become tight around his throat, turned and, without looking at either his wife or Lisa, went into the study, slamming the door a little louder than usual. This slam was the only sound that broke the oppressive silence.
And Lisa, after a moment's hesitation, as if gathering all her strength, as if deciding on something important, slowly turned around. A strange, almost frightening solemnity shone through in her every movement - the kind that comes from those who do not admit defeat, even after losing the most important game. Climbing the stairs, she carelessly threw the box on the antique chest of drawers in the hallway, so that the gift paper tore slightly at the edge. Without undressing, in her elegant dress, she entered her room and locked herself in. The sound of the lock clicking echoed throughout the house, like a final verdict.
And only behind the door, already alone, in the semi-darkness of her room, Lisa allowed herself to mutter through her teeth - barely audible, almost soundlessly, like the poisonous whisper of a snake, not intended for anyone's ears:
"An ungrateful, arrogant brat. A revolutionary in a skirt... Never mind, she'll start singing differently. And how she'll sing. And I'll wait for now."
She went to the window. The view of the Petersburg rooftops, usually so beloved by her, seemed bleak and joyless today. The gray sky was oppressive, and the wind was driving the occasional sheets of newspaper along the pavement, rustling like dry autumn leaves, although it was May outside. Lisa hugged herself, as if trying to warm herself, but the cold was not outside, but inside, an icy anger slowly squeezing her heart. Her thin fingers clenched into fists.
"The revolutionary," she whispered again, and now there was not only anger in her voice, but also some strange, dark interest. "This girl... She is not what she seems. She is hiding something. And her 'friend' - this boy, Xander... He is not so simple either."
In Lisa's mind, always occupied with complex intrigues and subtle calculations, a new plan was already beginning to take shape, cold and thoughtful, like a game of chess. Josephine's death... It was too convenient. Delia's appearance, her unbridled character... And these Yorks, so carefree, so... So American. They did not understand where they had ended up. They did not understand that here, in Petersburg, under the mask of decency, currents were hidden that could drag them to the bottom without a trace.
Lisa moved away from the window and walked around the room. Each step was measured, even though she was still wearing her dress and shoes. She ran her hand over the spines of the books on the shelf, not seeing them. Her thoughts swirled around Delia, Xander, and the threads that connected them but remained invisible.
"So, a revolutionary," Lisa repeated, but not for herself, but as if for the whole world, and in this repetition there was no longer anger, only cold, sharp interest. "Well then, young talent. Let's see who outplays whom."
Delia, after wandering around the house, feeling a little... A little out of place, like a new doll that hadn't been unpacked yet, returned to her room again. She stood by the door. For about ten seconds. Or maybe twenty. She just didn't want to go in right away, as if there was some boring lesson or that nasty Lisa with her endless moralizing behind that door.
"Oh, how boring," she whispered under her breath, "I hope at least something happens!"
But no one called, and there was nothing to do. Sighing, she pushed the door.
The room was the same as always. The sun was not as bright as in the morning, but it was still light. The air smelled of the buns that Pelageya baked, and something else warm and homey. Delia went to the window, pressed her nose to the cool glass and looked down. The yard was empty. Only the wet paths sparkled after the recent rain, and a sparrow hopped around in a puddle, as if looking for a gold coin there.
"Well, there you go," Delia muttered, "nobody. Even some birds... Some ordinary ones."
Neither Xander, nor even Pelageya - no one. It's boring.
Suddenly, the loud voice of my father, Gene, came from the hallway. He always spoke loudly, as if he was performing on stage, even when he was just talking to my mother.
"Our Xander", Delia heard, and her father's voice was so cheerful, just like at a holiday, "if he were some kind of little master, well, like those stupid young lords who always stick their noses up in the air, then he probably would have been hiding in the bushes a long time ago, gobbling up candy and shirking work! But as it is - there he is, chopping wood like a real man! Well done!"
"Little Master!" Delia wrinkled her nose. "Here we go again!"
Mom, Karen, said something Delia didn't hear. Probably something quiet, like she always says when she doesn't want to argue. Or when she just doesn't care.
"Little master". Ugh, how disgusting!" Delia shook her head. The word was so disgusting, so sticky, as if it stuck to her tongue. As if someone had thrown a dirty rag at her. Did Xander want to be a little master? Did he need these stupid candies that made his stomach hurt later, and this hide-and-seek? No! He's not like that. He's... He's real. Not like Jerome, who always brags about his toys and acts important. And not like this Jordan, who always tries to pull her pigtail and giggles.
Delia understood everything.
"I understand everything," she whispered, frowning, "that Xander is just a servant boy, and that you can't give him presents, like your favorite doll, or show him your secret drawings. And that you can't play young ladies and gentlemen with him, like those boys your mother invites to tea."
She understood that her mom and dad wanted the "right" friends for her, like Lisa, who always smiles, but as if she's hiding something behind her back, and her eyes are cold, cold, like a fish's.
"And what we can't do," Delia muttered, stamping her little foot. "And why we can't do it. And who we should do it with. Those boring boys."
But she didn't want to. She didn't want to at all! But still, something stubborn and hot was spreading inside, like a small coal in a stove. And it was Xander. He wasn't one of their kind, not one of those who came to visit at an invitation with curls. He didn't care about her new dresses, her surprises, her birthday. He was better. Maybe he was rude at times, maybe he was silent, but he didn't say unnecessary words, didn't smile falsely. He was cleaner. As if he had just washed himself in the rain.
Delia went to her desk. On it lay new books, gifts from her parents. With beautiful pictures, with gilded spines. But she did not want to open them.
"These princesses again," she sighed. "How boring!"
She didn't want to read about those silly princesses who do nothing but wait for princes. And about knights who fight all the time, as if they couldn't do otherwise. It all seemed so distant, so unreal. She wanted to read about Xander. About his hands that deftly chop wood. About his eyes that look seriously and honestly. About his silence that said more than all the words from all those books.
She sat down on the floor, pressing her back against the wall. The walls in her room, so bright and elegant, suddenly seemed alien, indifferent, as if they were listening but understanding nothing. The word "master" was still ringing in her ears. And over all this, like a heavy cloud, hung that same "I love you" from yesterday. Inappropriate, wrong, but so real.
"So be it!" she whispered. "And I'm not going to refuse!"
And Delia understood that this "I love" was her small, personal rebellion. A rebellion against the rules, against decency, against everything that was imposed on her. And she was not going to give it up. Let them tell her a hundred times that it was impossible. With this thought, she approached the smooth mirror in the antique frame, as if it saw everything and knew everything. Looking at her reflection - so pale, with slightly disheveled hair - she straightened the ribbon on her nightgown.
"Oh, what a look," she whispered to herself. "Not at all like a birthday girl. Lisa would definitely say: "Miss, today you look like a crow that just flew out of the nest!"
Then, without taking her eyes off her reflection, Delia slowly turned to the window. It was closed, and only a piece of the gray St. Petersburg sky was visible through the glass. She went over, pried the latch - tight, creaking - and opened it. The air was fresh, with the smell of dust, tiles and, of course, the kitchen - warm, bread, home. It immediately became easier to breathe. She leaned her elbows on the windowsill and looked down.
He stood by a large wooden barrel, holding the bucket with his knee, pouring water. Slowly, carefully, as he had done hundreds of times. As if it were the most important thing in the world. Not a gesture, not a glance in her direction - but she knew: he heard. He understood. Everything that needed to happen had already happened - now he just had to wait for it to become reality. When this "I love you", which jumped out on its own, like a frog from a swamp, becomes not just a word, but something... Something real.
She didn't want to call.
"And why bother," thought Delia. "He can hear it anyway."
She didn't say a word. She just watched. The scene repeated itself - as before: she was upstairs, he was downstairs. Different floors, different places. As if they were on different shelves in one big room. But now - not the same feeling. Everything had shifted. Not because it became possible, but because - it didn't matter anymore. Let it be impossible. She didn't care anymore.
It's not possible to go back.
"And there's no need," she whispered, almost inaudibly.
And it wasn't necessary. The words had been said. The answer was optional. She knew: he understood. Back then, in the kitchen, when she pressed herself against him. From that look. From that touch. When he didn't push her away.
He wasn't the type to tear his shirt off his chest or to compose an ode, like in those silly books. He just stood there and did his job. And that was exactly what she was waiting for: for him to stay. For him to be. For him not to retreat. For him not to run away like a frightened hare.
He suddenly looked up. Glanced. Without a smile. Only the corner of his lips twitched, just a little, like a sign. As if someone invisible had put a small dot there with a pencil.
She nodded. Quietly.
"Well, that's it," thought Delia. "That's it."
And slowly, as if there was something very important and final in this, she closed the window. Carefully, so that it wouldn't creak. She knew: he understood. Now - everything is ahead. Only... What exactly is ahead?
...666...
In the yard the footsteps died away, moving away, dying away somewhere around the bend of the house; the kitchen smoke, lazily creeping along the wall, seemed almost tangible in the hot morning air, like a living, weightless spirit of comfort. In the street the cabby had already stopped the cart at the Yorks' house - the horse snorted, driving away an annoying fly from its ear, and then, with ease, as if there was no road behind him, Jake Madison jumped off the tarantass: smart, in a plaid waistcoat, with a top hat under his arm and with that careless gloss in which good nature and road dust were mixed. He adjusted the brim of his hat as he walked, habitually, as if it were part of his ritual. He knocked on the door with his knuckles - a little louder than he should have, but still not intrusively, without impudence. The door was not opened for him.
"Well, then," Jake muttered under his breath, with a slight grin, "then we'll open it ourselves. Karen must still be asleep, and Gene..."
Then he entered himself, casually adjusting his waistcoat and brushing his sleeve - a rather mechanical gesture, as if checking whether he had forgotten anything important or whether he had picked up a speck of dust. A light rustling sound came from the hallway, and the barely perceptible aroma of fresh tea.
The living room greeted him with coolness, the shadow of heavy curtains and a barely perceptible smell of tobacco. Jake slowed his pace - not from uncertainty, but rather from theatrical politeness - and, noticing a figure at the window, squinted with satisfaction, as if he had found an object in its place. Gene, in an armchair, with a box of tobacco and two pipes on his knees, nodded almost imperceptibly, without even turning around. In one movement he extended his hand towards the next armchair, silently, in a familiar manner.
"Well, hello there, Gene," said Jake, taking off his top hat and sitting down, "you're always being economical with your words. Are you afraid they're too expensive?"
"And you, as always, think that one 'hello' can compensate for six months of silence," Gene responded, not taking his eyes off the tobacco he was deftly stuffing, as if he were continuing something he had started long ago. "By the way, I have phone bills coming."
"I had my reasons, by the way," Jake waved his hand. "Not reasons to justify myself, but serious enough to keep quiet decently. And without any telegrams."
"Yeah", chuckled Gene. "And, apparently, exactly until this morning. Until the moment when it became clear that today she was eight."
Jake pursed his lips and nodded towards the window, where a faint silhouette of a child could be seen behind the curtain.
"And I haven't seen her since..."
"How did he leave?" Gene finished calmly, handing him a filled pipe. "We don't say 'left,' after all. Not in your case."
The silence lay thick between them, like the steam from yesterday's beans. Jake turned away, lighting his pipe, greedily, with a businesslike inhalation, as if it might lead the conversation astray or dispel the awkwardness. Gene sat quietly, his back straight, his face coolly attentive, as if he were prepared to listen to any excuses, but not to believe them.
"It's not myself I'm ashamed of," Jake finally said, blowing out a smoke ring. "It's that I had to go through you to even congratulate her. It's like I'm some kind of... Some kind of stranger."
"Because it would have been worse through Lisa," Gene remarked, smiling slightly at the corner of his mouth. "She would have shoved your congratulations back into the telegraph, and even with a note: 'Dear sir, your message does not contain enough admiration.'"
"I know," Jake nodded. "That's why I came. Although, maybe it was in vain. Would you have told me if you weren't happy? I would have understood."
"I wouldn't have set the pipes according to the number of expected guests if I wasn't happy," Gene snapped, glancing at the second pipe. "And I certainly wouldn't have filled it with your favorite tobacco. Do you think I forgot?"
And without changing his position, he lit a match and brought it to his pipe. The flame flickered softly at the edge of his mustache. Jake looked at him sideways, squinted, and said a little more quietly:
"You're good with her after all. Really. Yesterday I even thought: maybe I shouldn't have... Well, you know."
Gene blew out a puff of smoke.
"I understand. But it's too late. You're now an intermission. And the stage goes on. And without your stupid beard."
They fell silent. The window behind them shook slightly from a draft, and the curtain, like a heavy wave, swayed towards the room.
Jake didn't turn around. He just asked, without taking his eyes off the phone:
"Is she still hiding behind the curtain?"
"No," said Gene. "She sees everything. And you're no exception. So don't ruin her party. If she gets hysterical, you'll have to calm her down yourself."
"And I'm not part of the party anymore?" Jake chuckled.
"You're part of the window, Jake. Like dust that isn't wiped off, but isn't touched either. So as not to touch anything unnecessary. For now."
He nodded, not offended. Even, perhaps, relieved. And a little later he took another drag. He blew the smoke toward the ceiling, where it slowly dissolved in the shadow of the curtains. Then, as if by the way, as if remembering something unimportant, he asked:
"Are you still following the frontline reports, Gene? Or have you already given up on this matter like last year's snow?
Gene nodded, not looking up from his pipe.
"I think I was looking through the Birzhevye Vedomosti this morning," he said, and there was neither interest nor alarm in his voice. "They were writing about the Amur again, as if their entire fleet now rested on it alone. Well, they know better."
Jake responded, also without much enthusiasm, as if this was just a statement of facts and not a subject for heated debate.
"And you know what I remembered?" He narrowed his eyes slightly, as if recalling something unpleasant. "The Japanese feed on American canned goods. From Ohio. I saw the labels myself, everything was in plain sight: dozens of tons of meat, and all there. It must be a glorious trade for those who sit there, in the rear."
Gene chuckled, apparently he had heard this before, and seemed not to want to delve into it - like, if you start counting other people's earnings, you'll have to pray for both sides, and that's unnecessary. He just shook his head.
"War, Jake," he said briefly, and all the philosophy was in that word. "One man's war is another man's mother. That's the way the world is."
Jake spread his hands, and the gesture contained both agreement and slight despair.
"Yes, it's all clear. The rails, the rifles, the uniforms - everything, they say, is on their side. "He nodded towards the window, as if outside, on the streets of St. Petersburg, one could see all these invisible threads connecting distant shores. "And now here we are, sitting in St. Petersburg, drinking tea, like guests, in houses where the sons of the owners, by the way, are fighting in the East against supplies from their own country. Funny, isn't it?"
Gene didn't answer right away, just nodded - apparently it wasn't the first time he'd heard something like that. He slowly blew out the smoke, watching it reach the ceiling. Then he finally spoke - slowly, as if he was drawing a conclusion - and his words sounded heavy, like stones falling into a well.
"The Russians won't forget this. You'll see. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But later. The time will come when they'll remember everything. And the same canned goods from Ohio, and the same rails."
Jake shrugged, as if agreeing - or simply not objecting. He didn't argue. What was there to argue about when everything was so clear? He leaned back in his chair, looking at his smoking pipe. Then, as if moving on to a long-overdue but still not very pleasant question, he tapped the pipe lightly with his finger and said:
"You know, Gene, we're sitting here smoking your excellent tobacco, and I keep thinking... This Russian empire, which we, Americans, you and our other compatriots, unfortunately stuck our noses into a couple of years ago, will fall apart anyway. Sooner or later. If not today, then tomorrow. And not because the Japanese are such good guys, but because... Well, you see for yourself."
He moved his head slightly towards the window, as if behind him, on the streets of St. Petersburg, one could see all the signs of the coming collapse.
"In the newspapers, they're heroes," Jake continued, and there was undisguised irony in his voice, "you know, the brave guys with swords drawn, ready to tear apart any samurai. But in real life? In real life, there's dysentery in army hospitals, hunger in villages where grain hasn't been delivered for years, and officers dreaming of running away somewhere to the Caucasus, to get lost in the mountains and not have to see all this shame. That's your greatness."
Gene chuckled, not changing his position, but that same expression appeared in his eyes - a dry smile, in which he always mixed irritation with fatigue.
"All this, Jake, is probably for profit. Or balance, whichever is closer to you. Some rake in the gold, others think that this is how the world holds together. And the truth, as always, is somewhere in the middle, and no one is looking for it."
Jake shook his head, and there was something in the way he moved that said, "That's not it."
"No, Gene, it's not that. It's a habit. America always feeds everyone. I don't know how to explain it, but that's the way it is. Whenever there's even the slightest trouble, our industrialists, those fat gentlemen from Wall Street, rush to the rescue. They'll throw in weapons, provisions, or some other nasty thing. And they don't even look at whose victory they're feeding. The main thing is that the dollar rings."
He chuckled, and it was a bitter grin.
"Just remember," Jake leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling, "American canning factories recently strangled all the cats in Chicago and New York. Do you know why?"
Gene, who had been listening with his eyes half-closed until now, suddenly opened them slightly.
"For fur?" he asked with a hint of mockery. "Or for some new fatty dish? You won't surprise me with anything."
"No, no!" Jake slapped his knee. "They made canned food out of them! Pate, so to speak. And now they sell them to the naive Japanese in cans with stickers saying 'rabbit pate'. Can you imagine? These gullible samurai are sitting somewhere near Mukden, eating cat pate and thinking it's real hare. And our businessmen are rubbing their hands. So much for charity."
Gene listened, his dry grin growing more and more expressive. He shook his head, as if confirming his long-held suspicions.
"Well, what did I tell you?" he said. "Profit. Profit, Jake. Nothing personal."
The conversation broke off. Not because they felt awkward talking about their compatriots' fraudulence - no. For them, it was almost routine, part of a large and not always clean business. They both simply understood: they were living in a foreign country, in this strange, foggy Petersburg, working in a world where everything was double, where every word had a hidden meaning. They smiled at parties where they knew everyone by name, but almost no one for real. And this war they were discussing was just another confirmation that their world, their America, just like this Russia, was full of its secrets, its frauds and its strange rules.
Jake, sensing the pause, realized that the topic of cat food and the general uncleanliness of his countrymen needed to be softened, diverted. He cleared his throat and, as if trying to find a new, more innocuous topic, began to speak, stumbling slightly:
"Well, and we, Americans... We know how to make more than just canned goods, you know. We're trying our best to drive those Japanese out of Korea. For example, we've taken on the task of establishing tram service in Seoul. Can you imagine? Real trams! Iron, electric...
He hesitated, remembering about electricity, of which there was not much in Russia yet.
"Well, not exactly electric," Jake corrected himself, blushing slightly, "more like steam-powered ones, but still - trams! New, beautiful, with big windows! We want to show who the real master of Asia is there."
Gene chuckled, raising an eyebrow. It was obvious that he was listening with only half an ear, waiting to see where this strange story would lead.
"And so, to lure Koreans onto these trams", Jake continued, trying to speak cheerfully", we came up with a whole entertainment program. At the end of the tram route, we give passengers... free rides! With tightrope dancers, can you imagine? People gather, watch, applaud. Ladies in hats, children squeal with delight. A circus, and nothing more!
He laughed, but his laugh was a little forced.
"And those who have traveled the route twice", Jake leaned towards Gene, lowering his voice, as if telling a big secret", at the end of the route they show a silent movie! About brave Texas cowboys. Dust in a column, shootouts, Indians running. Full house! Delight! Our businessmen are sure that this way we can tie them to us. And show who is the boss here.
Gene, who had been simply listening up until this point, suddenly interrupted without taking the pipe out of his mouth:
"And how, Jake, will all this fuss of your industrialists in Korea end? With big profits? Or, perhaps, with a big fight?"
Jake sighed. The topic was apparently still awkward.
"Well, how it ends..." he shrugged. "The Koreans have already burned three trams. Not without help from the Japanese, of course. After all, America's influence in the affairs of the East is not at all advantageous to them. They are pursuing their own interests there. And it turns out that we are there, in the same hole. One with one, like two roosters in a henhouse. Only the henhouse is someone else's."
He clearly didn't want to pursue the topic. He felt the air in the room become even heavier. To somehow defuse the situation, Jake suddenly stood up, shook invisible ash from his vest and, as if by the way, with feigned nonchalance, suggested:
"Well, Gene, enough about politics and that, God forgive me, canned cat food of yours. How about we go to the living room to see the family? Let's see how your little girl, Deedle, is doing. In her new dress. I hope it's not pink? Because those pink dresses on children, you know, make me think sadly of piglets.
Gene straightened his collar as he rose from his chair. A slight irony flashed in his eyes.
"It's not up to me, Jake, what clothes she wears. Women, even little ones, choose for themselves. And especially Deedle. She's a girl with character. I see you've forgotten what it's like to deal with a nine-year-old lady who has her own views on life."
With that they left the room together. Gene, walking ahead, looked as if he had just gotten rid of a boring but necessary meeting, and Jake looked as if he was looking forward to the continuation of a play in which the main roles had not yet been assigned. They walked up a wide staircase covered with a heavy carpet, which made their steps sound muffled, like incantations. The air was filled with the smell of wax, old books, and some elusive floral scent, clearly Karenina's.
They went into the living room, where Karen, standing by the window, was busily arranging a flower arrangement: she held a vase with both hands, leaning slightly as if checking symmetry, and her slender fingers gracefully adjusted the stems. Everything around her breathed order - the tablecloth lay without a single crease, the candles in bronze candlesticks were aligned almost mathematically, cushions with embroidered patterns were laid out on the chairs. It seemed as if something more than just an afternoon tea was about to take place in this room - some important reception for which they were preparing with special care. Karen, as usual, was silent, and her face expressed nothing but tense concentration - the same one that arises in women when they feel someone else's gaze on them, but do not pay attention to it, as if this gaze were just an annoying fly.
Jake, walking into the room, took a quick, sharp look at it and mentioned with a grin:
"Well, Gene, look here", his voice was a little louder than it should have been in such a quiet room, "everything looks like a reception at some governor-general's! Really, all that's left is to call the orchestra, and we can give balls. Otherwise it's a bit boring without lackeys with trumpet calls."
Karen, without turning around, made a remark, and there was a slight weariness in her voice, behind which one could hear not only irritation, but also hidden anxiety.
"The last thing we need in this house, Jake, is a general. Those people bring nothing but bad news and the smell of barracks. Besides, we've got too much going on today..."
Jake retorted playfully, taking a step further into the room.
"Well, then there are only us left - ordinary, cheerful, unburdened by any titles. And most importantly - without feathers in our hats. I honestly don't know what you would do without us, Mrs. York. You would sit in silence, like nuns in a cell."
Karen just shrugged slightly, continuing to straighten the flower. Jake, looking around as if he had lost something, suddenly began to look for someone in particular, and an expression of slight concern mixed with curiosity appeared on his face.
"By the way, Gene", he turned to his friend", where is our good old Josephine? I don't see her. I hope some rich Russian merchant hasn't whisked her away? She ran off into the sunset in his troika, probably, taking all the family jewels with her? And a couple of bottles of your best whiskey. She's a lady of character, that Josephine."
Instead of answering, Lisa spoke. She stood a little to the side, by the wall, in her strict dress, resembling a doll carved from porcelain: all discipline and precise gestures. Her voice sounded calm, almost musical, but it conveyed something that could not be called lively participation.
"Mr. Madison," Lisa said with a restrained smile, "Josephine has unfortunately left home forever. I am now in charge of the education of young Lady York. My name is Lisa Roselli."
There was no regret in her tone, rather a familiar politeness, with that slight coldness that is characteristic of those who are accustomed to separating the personal from the official. As if she were reading a report.
Gene introduced Lisa, as if confirming her words, but with a bit of exaggeration.
"Lisa Roselli, Jake. Miss Roselli from America. Worked for a famous doctor, a specialist in nervous disorders. Quite capable, I'll tell you honestly. Deedle has become... More obedient."
Jake narrowed his eyes at Lisa. A phrase that was either a compliment or a hidden mockery escaped his lips:
"I didn't expect to see a governess like that. I honestly thought they were all either old ladies with a cane or stern Frauleins in glasses. And here... And here is such an exquisite lady. Just like from a fashion magazine. You, Miss Roselli, have probably cured more than one wife of jealousy, and then you yourself caused this jealousy?"
Lisa smiled a little wider, nodded reservedly, as if she had accepted what had been said, but did not consider it necessary to comment on it. For a moment, something appeared in her gaze that could have been taken for slyness, if not for the severity of her posture and general detachment. She looked like a cat carefully studying its prey.
When Jake turned back to Gene and said something about "harem men," hinting at the presence of such a refined lady in the house, he only shrugged, as if he saw nothing strange or funny about it.
"Well, Jake," he replied with that calmness that could be either sincere or simply defensive, "Lisa is doing great. And Deedle, as I said, has become quieter. And that's the main thing. She can't run around like a wild cat forever."
Karen, putting the vase down on the table a little more abruptly than she should have, so that the flowers shook, clarified without turning around:
"Silence, Gene, and calm are not the same thing. Sometimes silence can be... Very loud. Like a scream."
The pause that followed these words was awkward. Jake felt the air tighten, like a string before a thunderstorm. He looked at everyone in turn, from his friend's wife to the governess, then to Gene himself, and said with a kind of deliberate lightness, trying to defuse the situation:
"Well", he spread his hands, "I see that everything is fine with you, like in an American bank. And it turns out that I worried in vain. And I didn't sleep all night, thinking about how to give you some good advice."
Lisa smiled again, almost automatically. Karen turned to the bookshelf, straightening the spines of the books, and it became clear that even if there was agreement, it was only superficial, like a smart dress with old patches underneath. Jake sensed that there was something else hidden under this "everything is in order," and, straightening his hat, almost automatically, he said something about seeing acquaintances on the way to them:
"Oh, I almost forgot", he pretended to remember, "I saw familiar faces on the way, at Nikolaevsky Station. In a hurry, with suitcases, with her son and an old servant - Lily Creighton. Herself, can you imagine? And her husband. It didn't look like they were getting ready to go to the dacha. They looked as if they were running from the plague."
He spoke of this almost casually, but he watched faces - especially Karen's.
She froze, just touching the fold on the tablecloth slightly, as if she wanted to smooth it out, but couldn't find where to put her hands. Gene lit a cigarette - a second time, as if the first hadn't helped, and the smoke came out in thick rings. His face regained its former self-confidence when he said, casually waving his hand:
"And it's good that they left. Creighton has been a real nuisance to me over the last few years. He was always putting spokes in my wheels, always creating some stupid obstacles. And now, after the hunt in Tsarskoe Selo... Everything has gone differently. The baron with whom that deal was made turned out to be a man of his word. And very timely, I must say."
There was no joy in Gene's voice, but satisfaction, almost businesslike, like that of a merchant who had successfully completed a deal.
Jake didn't answer right away. His smile faded, becoming strained like an old rubber band. He took a deep breath before speaking.
"Winning in business is, of course, an important thing, Gene. But it's still strange when death becomes profitable. It's... It's somehow very Russian, or something. Or simply... Simply human."
It didn't sound like a judgment, but rather like a statement of something disturbing that one didn't want to acknowledge. Gene responded dryly, blowing out another puff of smoke.
"I'm not a hypocrite, Jake. I'm not pretending. I'm not going to preach. I'm telling it like it is. Morris was in the way - now he's gone. That's it. End of story."
Karen looked at her husband - long, calmly, not in the forehead, but in the face. No condemnation, no words - just a look that reminded: not everything in life is determined by convenience. Not everything is determined by his will. And not everything is as simple as it seems to him.
Gene, as if not noticing this look, said a phrase about how to each his own:
"Some people live looking around, Jake, and always looking for a catch. And some people look ahead. And they get what they want."
His voice didn't waver, and he turned away first. As if the conversation was finally over and he wasn't going to return to it.
Lisa had been sitting nearby all this time, in a chair by the far wall, not interfering in the men's conversation, but not a single word, not a single gesture escaped her attention. Her face remained calm, almost serene, like the smooth surface of a lake on a windless day, but her eyes seemed to absorb every detail, every vibration of the air in this room, where so many sharp angles were hidden under external politeness. When Gene turned away, making it clear that the conversation was over, Lisa, like an invisible shadow, stood up and went to the corner of the room, to the old sideboard, where porcelain plates gleamed in the glass doors.
"Well then," she whispered under her breath, pretending to straighten the napkins, although her hands barely touched the fine lace. "It's just as I thought. Only worse."
Her lips trembled slightly, but then immediately returned to their usual, neutral expression.
The mention of Lily Creighton put her on her guard. Not surprised, no - rather confirmed long-standing, carefully concealed suspicions. "Too sudden a departure, too hasty - her thoughts swarmed like bees in a hive. She knew the Creighton' connections well - both in America, where their name meant as much as gold in banks, and here, in Petersburg, where their appearance was as bright as a flash of lightning.
"Old money," she said almost silently, "is always mixed with new secrets. And how badly it smells sometimes! Nothing new, really.
She ran her finger over the dusty surface of the sideboard, as if brushing away invisible crumbs.
Gene's words about the "benefits" of death did not disgust her. On the contrary, they interested her. They were definite, clear, even cynical, intent. "Although," Lisa thought, "cynicism is just honesty taken to the extreme." She remembered every detail: Tsarskoe Selo, Baron Buher, the change after the hunt.
"Such things," she muttered, adjusting the porcelain figurine, "are not said casually in conversation. It's like a thrown stone. And if a stone is thrown, it means it's needed for some reason."
She glanced at Gene, who was already standing at the window, pretending to admire the view. A man of action. A man who wasn't shy about calling a spade a spade. It was... It was almost attractive in its ruthlessness.
Jake, despite his outwardly good-natured image, also aroused her doubts.
"Too free for a simple friend," flashed through her thoughts. "Too homely. Too close - to Deedle, to Karen. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing, but with a charming smile."
She hadn't yet decided who he was to them. But she knew: there was something unclear in this family, something hidden under a layer of well-being, and this uncertainty was to the advantage of those who knew how to wait.
Karen, standing by the bookshelf, did not intervene in the conversation, but her silence was almost physical - heavy, oppressive, like a storm cloud. Lisa felt: under the restraint - exhaustion, under the fatigue - tension.
"The perfect family," Lisa whispered, a hint of irony in her voice. "A model of American respectability in St. Petersburg. But it's only a facade. Like a pretty wrapper for a bitter candy. Or for... Or for something much more dangerous."
She chuckled.
"I'm from America too." It was so quiet that they could hardly hear her. "And I see more than they think. People who are overly confident are always a vulnerable structure. Confidence is a crack through which doubts penetrate. And through which something can... Something can be pulled out."
At that moment, Karen, as if sensing something, turned her head. Lisa immediately straightened the folds on the napkins, her face became absolutely neutral.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. York," she said with a slight smile. "It just slipped out, you know. The habit of order. Everything has to be perfect."
Karen nodded slightly, turning back to her books. Lisa, satisfied that her little test had been successful, returned to her observation. Her eyes were more attentive. Like someone who was waiting for one of the three to finally falter. Or for this whole facade to begin to crack, revealing what was hidden inside.
"Yes," thought Lisa, "Josephine was stupid, of course. But she was kind. And kindness, as we know, often leads to... To absence. The ability to disappear is a talent. And sometimes it is a necessity."
She remembered Gene mentioning Baron Buher. Baron Buher... The name had come up in some of the reports. A man of influence. And, apparently, useful. What could possibly connect him to the Creighton, and what did Morris's death have to do with it? Too many coincidences, too many threads leading in the same direction.
"And Deedle..." flashed through her head. "A girl. So... real. Too real for this house."
She remembered how the girl had snuggled up to Xander in the kitchen. It had been so unexpected. So... So against the rules.
"Oh, these children," Lisa muttered, as if making excuses to herself. "They always complicate everything. Or maybe they simplify it."
She smiled. This wasn't just work. It was a game. And the rules of the game were just beginning to become clear.
...666...
At that hour, along a narrow Petersburg street, among cobblestones gleaming as if polished, four figures made their way. They walked unhurriedly, with the air of connoisseurs who knew their path precisely. Leading them was Rasolko, notebook in hand, pencil at the ready, as if not heading to a friend's but to an audience with Witte himself.
"Now, listen here, brothers!" Rasolko began, his voice ringing over the pavement without breaking stride. "Have you heard of Kolka-Bochkin, the regular at the dives along the Obvodny Canal? Quite a character, I swear! Drank like a dray horse after three buckets. No sobering up, no catching his breath! And then, imagine this - our Kolka, out of nowhere... saw the light!"
Artem Starikov, his dress shirt blindingly white as if fresh from the laundry, let out a chuckle, stroking his beard.
"Saw the light, you say?" he raised an eyebrow. "Must've been the delirium tremens paying a visit, urging him to take monastic vows. I'm not buying these transformations, Andryusha. Sounds like a one-man show with a couple of bottles, at least!"
Trailing behind Starikov, slouching as was his habit, was Byakin. He smoothed his hair, muttering something indistinct under his breath, but at the mention of "Kolka-Bochkin," he flinched.
"Kolka-Bochkin?" he echoed in a hollow voice. "I think I heard something about that. Didn't he supposedly quit drinking and start attending services at Kazan Cathedral?"
"Exactly!" Rasolko exclaimed, triumphant at hitting the mark. "Quit drinking, started going to services at Kazan, and even planned to take monastic vows! What's more - he confessed to stealing a samovar from a diner at Sennaya! People, can you believe it, flocked to see this miracle! And sure enough - Kolka's bowing, crossing himself, shedding tears like a priest at confession! One merchant even gave him a ruble - for the salvation of his soul!"
Terekhov, lagging at the rear with his perpetual half-smirk, let out a snicker.
"Hm," he drawled, "wish I could pull that off. Vanish for a week, then return with a revelation... 'Oh, brothers, I've seen the truth! And now I'm selling my conscience!' Though I don't believe in that any more than I believe in the purity of our ministers' thoughts."
"A week passed," Rasolko continued, with the air of a scholar unveiling a great mystery, "and they were already preparing a cassock for him... when suddenly - he vanished! Gone, as if swallowed by the earth, damn him! The crowd was in a tizzy - oh, Kolka-Bochkin must've ascended to heaven without a ladder!"
Byakin shook his head, as if confirming his own vague knowledge.
"I heard about that. But then they... they found him, didn't they?"
"Found him!" Rasolko declared triumphantly. "Found Kolka-Bochkin in a ditch by the Tavrichesky Garden! With two empty bottles, naturally!" He threw his hands up theatrically. "And with a new revelation - that he's unworthy of monkhood! Seems under the influence of this new 'epiphany,' he decided the path of righteousness was too thorny for his nature! There's your miracle!"
Starikov merely shook his head, unable to suppress a smirk.
"What did I say? A performance. All these 'revelations' - just a cover for a good binge. And someone even gave him a ruble! What a fool!"
Terekhov kept snickering, likely picturing himself as Kolka-Bochkin, emerging from a ditch with an enlightened face and empty bottles. Rasolko, pleased with the effect of his tale, cast a sharp, approving glance at his companions. He led them down the street like a shepherd herding his flock, toward a new, unknown story he was already eager to jot down. They turned onto Gorokhovaya, where the sun, piercing the morning haze, made the old buildings look like props for some absurd operetta. And then...
Ahead, against the gray bulk of a tenement, a solitary figure loomed. A black engineer's uniform, silver buttons, a stern cap. It was unmistakable - Sergei Zazyrin. Starikov, his once-pristine shirt now slightly creased, called out to him with a tone laced with mockery at the man's grim appearance.
"Good heavens! If it isn't our dear Sergei!" he exclaimed, theatrically clutching his chest. "Where are you off to, brother? A ball at the imperial chambers? You talk of apocalypse, yet here's the sun, the scent of fresh buns from the bakery, ladies smiling as if there's no war at all! And you're dressed like you're attending your own funeral!"
Rasolko smirked, pulling out his notebook. Byakin, slouching, muttered something about the "disparity between the external and internal." Terekhov chuckled.
Zazyrin, drawing closer, couldn't hide a grimace. Starikov's jesting words carried a hint of truth. His formal attire could indeed spark such associations. He held a satchel, his face weary, his pince-nez as ever, seemingly fused to his nose.
"Greetings to you too, gentlemen," Sergei nodded, his voice low, as if road-weary. "You lot are strolling like it's a Sunday ball, not a house that could be raided any moment. And this after your 'exploits' at Sennaya, Starikov?"
Starikov merely snorted, spitting at his feet.
"Yankees, Sergei, aren't nobles - they're a cultural phenomenon. Everything's free and fancy, pure America! Lemonade, cakes, even music, they say... And if the police show up, it'll only play into our hands! We'll say we're a delegation from the Society for the Rights of Coachmen!"
"Or for the rights of kitchen maids," Terekhov added, his smirk widening into a full grin. "Besides, what's the police got on us? We weren't carrying manifestos, just paying a visit."
"Do as you please," Zazyrin replied, his earlier irony gone. "But don't talk too much. You're guests there, not bosses or an underground committee on tour. Understood?"
Byakin, half-joking, half-serious, clasped his hands over his stomach.
"Our very appetites, Seryozha, are revolutionary. And so, we speak in revolutionary tongues!"
Laughter erupted - cheerful but tinged with uncertainty, as if each felt the shadow of Sergei's warning. The trio of students pressed on, Rasolko slightly apart, glancing around as if counting houses or noting signs for a future feuilleton.
Sergei remained alone on the narrow Petersburg street. The sun climbed higher, painting the house facades, while rare passersby hurried about, oblivious to the man in the stern engineer's uniform. He, in turn, barely noticed them, lost in thought.
When the lively trio, led by the sharp-tongued Rasolko, vanished around the corner, Sergei set his satchel on the pavement. The stones, still damp with morning dew, gave off a chill. Carefully, as if wary of disturbing a sleeping secret, he unlatched the bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. It wasn't just a map but a diagram - a railway chart, with a red line stretching from Petersburg to Chita, then to Nerchinsk, and on to Akatuy. Every segment, every station, every junction was marked in pencil. Everything was calculated - every second, every rail joint, every carriage. Everything, except their reckless folly.
"Pastries... Iced lemonade..." echoed the trio's recent banter in his mind. He winced. Was it all just buns and nonsense to them? Or was it he, Zazyrin, who missed something? He, who saw an enemy in every glance, a cipher in every word, a conspiracy in every meeting, and a step toward the abyss in every move. Yet they laughed and jested, as if on a casual stroll. Was this their way of resisting? Or... just foolishness?
A thought of Rasolko struck him like cold water: who had sent him? He'd only recently appeared in their circle, this brash, omnipresent scribbler. Too free in his manners, too well-informed, too reckless in pushing them toward risky steps. The secret police? No, he was too... too open in his fussiness. And for an agent, he was far too foolish - though that didn't rule out his danger. A fool with initiative was worse than any schemer.
He gave a dry, barely noticeable smirk, bitter in its edge. If there was anything to fear, it wasn't the secret police but their own friendly carelessness. This quartet, unaware, could wreak more havoc than a regiment of gendarmes. Their fervor, their negligence, their carefree laughter could spell disaster for all.
With that weight pressing heavier on his chest than any burden, he carefully folded the map and tucked it back into the satchel. The latch clicked shut, locking away not just revolvers and papers but his anxious thoughts. He lifted the satchel, feeling its weight - the weight of duty and danger. Zazyrin strode swiftly toward the Nikolaevsky Station, each step radiating resolve, an inner steel.
Sergei Zazyrin vanished around the corner, swallowed by the bustle of a Petersburg morning, leaving behind only the faint rustle of wind across the pavement. His path led east, to distant Akatuy, his fate to trials unknown.