Then I heard Sasha moan. No, I thought, the very first thing to do was take care of him. Returning to the kitchen, I found him still sitting on the stool but slumped against the sink. Just how bad was he?
“Sasha, let’s get your coat off.”
He nodded ever so slightly but didn’t move, so I reached around and undid the heavy buttons of his wool coat. Touching him, I felt the hard strength in his back, his arms, and his chest. His dark brown hair, long and curly, was tousled, and that face I had once found so sweet and inviting seemed lined and hardened under a coarse beard. It struck me that in the two years since I had last seen him he had easily aged five. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had enlisted in the war effort, and, if so, if he’d served in the trenches at the front.
Once I had his coat undone, I slipped his right arm free without any problem. When I came to his left, however, he winced in pain.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Someone…someone stabbed me.”
“Bozhe moi!” My God! “Sasha, I’m going to have to call a doctor.”
“Nyet!”
“But-”
“You don’t understand! I can’t see a doctor, I can’t!” He tried to get up. “It’s too dangerous for me.”
“Stop! Just sit still. Let me get your coat off and clean you up, at least. Then we’ll know how bad it is.”
Reaching over his shoulder with his good hand, he clasped my right, and said, “I’m sorry, Maria. So very sorry.”
For coming here tonight? Was he sorry for that…or for using me and lying to me as we steamed up the River Tura on that beautiful summer day and then leading my father’s would-be assassin right to him?
All I could manage was a pathetic “What for?”
“There’s so much I need to explain. It’s just so…so complicated. I wanted to come to your house the day after your father was attacked…but I couldn’t. I didn’t dare.”
“Why?” I snapped. “Because you were afraid you would be arrested?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s obvious you were part of the conspiracy to kill him.”
“What? You don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”
“Of course I do. I told you when and where my father would be, and then you led that madwoman right to him. I asked around later, and someone even said you were both staying in the same boardinghouse. And-”
“No, Maria, you don’t understand!”
“No, I don’t.” I winced as if I myself had been stabbed. “But you can start by telling me why you came here tonight. How did you find me?”
“Everyone in Petrograd knows where the Rasputins live. It’s no secret.”
“Tell me honestly-do you mean us harm?”
“Dear God, no!” He hesitated, then added, “Maria, trust me, please trust me, when I say I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”
Nothing could have surprised me more. I refused, however, to show my own wound and the pain that burned even now. Instead, I turned away.
“We’ll talk later, Sasha,” I said sternly. “First we have to take care of your arm.”
I pulled his coat from his left shoulder, slid it down his arm, and pulled it brusquely past the wound and over his hand. It hurt him, I know-he winced terribly-but I didn’t care. What did he know about confusion and pain? What did he care about the suffering of others?
Although I was surprised by the amount of blood, the wound itself wasn’t so horrible, a deep gash through his shirt and up his forearm. With blood still readily flowing, however, it was no wonder Sasha was weak. What had happened and who had done this? Was he a deserter; had the military police chased him down? I was no stranger to gore, having helped Mama deliver countless foals and calves. Not only that, but in the fields surrounding our village, laborers and workhorses alike were always getting injured. It struck me, staring down at Sasha’s wound, that this wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the things I had witnessed.
“You’re lucky,” I said, as I turned on the faucet and began rinsing the wound. “It looks like the knife didn’t cut down to the bone.”
He said nothing, only winced. I carefully ran the water up and over his arm, rinsing away blood and grime and tiny bits of his shirt. His forearm, which was thick and strong and covered with a haze of dark hair, now lay weak and limp in my hands. I knew so little about him-and doubted everything he had ever said. Whether or not he was from Novgorod, whether or not he had attended university in Moscow -things he had told me that day on the riverboat-I didn’t know, and yet despite his strength it was obvious he had never worked the fields. I could tell his fingers were not those of a peasant, for they were not calloused but soft.
Once I had flushed his arm, I realized the main problem was not the gash but Sasha’s loss of blood. How long ago had this happened? How much blood had he already lost?
“Sasha, you’re going to have to see a doctor to get this sewn up.”
“Can’t you-”
“Absolutely not. The only thing I can do now is wrap it up in a bandage. If I get it tight enough, it should slow the blood. But the sooner you get to a doctor, the better. Besides, it needs to be thoroughly disinfected.”
He shrugged.
I reached to the side for a clean white tea towel, which I wrapped almost as tightly as a tourniquet around his forearm. Although the towel blossomed immediately with blood, I was sure it would help. I then took his good hand and placed it on the towel.
“Press down good and hard and don’t let go,” I commanded. “I’ll be right back.”
Hurrying from the kitchen, I passed through our dining room to the darkened salon. Papa’s most regular visitors were society ladies who came three or four times a week for tea and to hear Papa’s religious convictions. These well-bred women had been taught the evilness of idle hands, so as they drank their tea and listened to my father, they picked up knitting needles and worked away. And since the outbreak of war, of course, they’d made only one thing: bandages from string. Scattered around our salon were no less than six wicker baskets, in each of which sat a set of fine knitting needles, a ball of string, and bandages in varying lengths of completion, all just waiting for a lady’s busy hands. From one pile I snatched a bandage and its attached ball of string.
As I was turning back to the kitchen, however, I heard a faint noise, a voice or a moan coming from somewhere. There couldn’t be someone else in here, could there? I listened for one more second but heard nothing. Worried, I went to the front door and pulled on it, but it was still locked.
Returning to the kitchen, I worked quickly, cutting the bandage free from the ball of string and tying the loose end. The bandage itself was good and dense and long, and with Sasha’s help I wrapped it around his arm no less than three times. I then tore another towel in half and tied it around his arm to hold everything in place.
And then…again I thought I heard something. Standing quite still, I listened for more sounds, either from the street out front or from somewhere in our apartment. Why was I so sure it was the latter? Why was I suddenly so afraid?
I knew I should be making Sasha tea or soup. I knew I should be looking for some fish or, better yet, a jar of caviar, which was so rich and healthful. Instead, I ordered him from the stool.
“You need to lie down,” I told him.
Escorting him across the kitchen, I pulled aside the curtain and led him into the nook were Dunya’s cot was tucked. Gripping him tightly, I lowered him onto the edge of the bed and eased him onto his back. Finally, I slipped off his filthy, worn leather boots and lifted up his feet. As I tucked a small pillow behind the curls of his hair, he gazed up at me and offered the slightest of smiles. I couldn’t help but blush.