“Capri Salad with tomatoes and black olives,” Vadik the waiter informed Fomin. He was an old hand at the art of pleasing. “Fillet of plaice with grapes. Skewer-grilled shrimp with lemon.”
Fomin wasn’t listening. A young woman sitting at an empty table by the window had caught his eye. She looked strangely like Nina Odintzova.
Of course, it wasn’t her. This woman had her hair cut short and was wearing a dress that looked like a school uniform.
The woman was sitting sideways to Fomin with her legs crossed. Her folded overcoat, felt hat, and a small bag were on a chair next to her.
It was Nina, Fomin realized. She looked older, and her face had become thinner and her chin sharper.
“Duck in sweet and sour sauce,” Vadik murmured.
Fomin waved him away and walked over to Nina. “What a coincidence!”
She looked at him, started. “Oh… is it you?” She seemed pleased to see him.
Fomin held her hand in his coarse paw. “Good God, Nina—I never thought— How long is it since we last saw each another?”
“A little more than a year.” She smiled, and Fomin’s heart melted. “I thought you were dead. Your name was on a list of people who had been executed.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “How are you managing?”
Nina looked down, pulled her hand away, and hid it under the table.
She’s been through the mill by the looks of things, thought Fomin.
“Is Zhora dead?” he asked.
Nina nodded. “Everybody is dead: Elena, her parents—Sofia Karlovna and I are the only ones left.”
Fomin crossed himself. “May they rest in peace.”
He found out that Nina and the old countess had just arrived from Rostov, and that they had nowhere to go. Sofia Karlovna had gone to the French mission to negotiate their departure. Meanwhile, Nina was waiting for her in Makhno Café.
“Did you say that your mother-in-law is well-connected in Paris?” Fomin asked.
It would be nice to get to France with the help of the old countess, avoiding quarantine camps and the humiliating process of registering as a refugee.
“Where are you going to stay while you’re in town?” he asked next.
Nina shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve heard the hotels are full.”
“Why don’t you come stay with me?”
“How much are you asking for a room?”
Fomin laughed. “Nina, what’s wrong with you? Keep your money for yourself. The prices here are outrageous. An apple at Privoz Market costs fifty rubles.”
Nina was shocked. “Why so expensive? We came here by train and saw plenty of gardens around the town.”
“Nobody goes there for fear of the Greens.”
“Who are the Greens?”
“Partisans. Or rather, gangs of deserters evading the draft. They’re fighting everybody—the Whites and the Reds—and sometimes they come into the town from the mountains and kill the guards. So, you’d better get your papers ready if you want to go outside. Otherwise, you’re at risk of being taken off to counterintelligence on suspicion of being a supporter of the partisans. If you have money, you can pay your way out, but if not, the guards will flog you—and that’s the best that will happen.”
Nina grew pale. “But we don’t have any documents yet. Sofia Karlovna is hoping to get them from the French.”
“I strongly recommend you come to stay with me then. You’ll be safe in my house—I have reliable bodyguards.”
Nina looked him coldly up and down, and Fomin suddenly realized that she didn’t want him to get too close.
“What happened to that Argentine?” he asked bluntly. “Did he come back from Petrograd?”
“Yes. And then I married him.”
“Really? And where is he now?”
“He was killed two months ago.”
Sofia Karlovna returned excited and told them that she had met Colonel Guyomard and Colonel Corbeil, and both of them were very nice and friendly. They had promised the old countess to do everything possible to help her and her daughter-in-law get to France.
Fomin listened without taking his eyes off Nina.
She was somebody else’s fortune now, he thought, out of his reach because of his age, his post in the White administration, and his military duties. She would go abroad, and he would die here in Novorossiysk from a Red Army bullet or perhaps from a broken heart.
It seemed he was doomed to have his feelings unrequited—both by his motherland and by the woman he loved.
29. THE BRITISH LIEUTENANT
The sun beat down on Klim’s eyelids, unbearably bright. He felt as dry and scorched as a dead leaf, his body no more than an outline and a handful of dried-out veins.
He was aware of a terrible weakness and a tugging pain in his chest every time he took a breath. And what was that buzzing sound? Was it the sound of cicadas, or was it inside his head?
Suddenly, there was a roar like thunder, and a hot wind fanned his cheeks.
Klim opened his eyes and saw an armored train racing along the embankment in a cloud of dust, black smoke, and sparks. The rattling cars flashed by, and then all was quiet again, although the earth kept trembling as though beaten.
Klim tried to sit up but felt such excruciating pain that he fell back. Catching his breath, he tried again, this time more carefully. His tunic was covered with half-clotted blood. It was terrifying even to take a look at the gaping wound in his chest. Has Osip wounded me fatally? Will I recover, or am I done for? It took some time for Klim to realize that his lung had been spared, and the bullet to his chest had only damaged the flesh.
He had a vague, delirious recollection of the events of the previous night. He remembered jumping out through the open car door, his body angled to the side perhaps a split second before Osip had fired the gun. After that, Klim had hit the ground, and, it seemed, he had concussed himself. That was why he felt so sick.
Nina? Klim choked and clutched his forehead. Oh, God! He had left her behind; she was still on the train.
Klim bandaged his wound clumsily with a strip torn from his tunic and dragged himself along the railroad tracks barefoot and leaning on a stick that he had found lying on the ground. There wasn’t a soul around, just hunchbacked slopes, dry grass, and trees. He had no food and no water to drink or to bathe his wound. Without medicine, it wouldn’t be long before his wound became infected.
Several times, Klim stumbled and fell and lay there motionless feeling nothing but his own pulse. If only someone would come! Whites or Reds, he didn’t care. Just give me some water, and you can finish me off.
A sense of inexorable horror was bearing down on Klim: What has happened to my wife? Those beasts might rape or mutilate her. Osip, please don’t touch her… please… please!
Klim prayed silently and pointlessly as he stumbled along. He knew he had seen Nina for the last time, and no one would be able to tell him where to look for her.
At first, Klim felt he was losing his hearing—he could no longer hear the birds or the snap of twigs under his feet. Then came visions: gray huts floating above the horizon and a large bed on the path with its bedposts adorned with round metal knobs that gleamed in the sunset. Two boys dressed in rags were sitting on top of it.
Klim wanted to talk to them, but they disappeared in the thick shimmering air. He staggered to the bed—what a convenient mirage!—and lay down on it.
That’s it, he thought. I’ll just lie here. I’m not going anywhere.
Klim was woken by two thin menacing boys—one with a kitchen knife and other with a scythe and dressed in an adult’s shirt with a hood that made him look like a miniature Grim Reaper.