Maeve joined her one Saturday in Henrietta Park, Olga’s favourite place, its two-kilometre footpath around the central lawn making it ideal for anyone doing laps. She was amused to see how the big woman stepped out purposefully with chin up like one of the Young Pioneers, her wobbly arms angled and swinging across her chest.
Olga had recovered from the mugging quite quickly and wasn’t deterred from going out. She was incapable of running, but she walked, and it was no-nonsense walking. She told Maeve she, too, was weighing herself regularly. She kept a diary and logged every outing. She still sported the rings and a new gold chain, but wisely did most of her walking by day.
She was clearly well-known in the park, greeted with waves and smiles by many people they passed. Some even knew her name. However, she wouldn’t stop to talk. This was serious training.
“You’re amazing,” Maeve told her. “I’m almost running to keep up with you.”
“You can run if you want,” Olga said. “No one to see. Trees say nothing.”
Maeve stepped out and swung her arms and hips in the same way as Olga — at the cost of some dignity.
“You’ve never explained why you’re doing all this walking.”
“Not true. First time we meet I tell you.”
“To lose weight?”
“Lose fat, get fit. Here is tree looking at us,” Olga said, pointing to their left. “Purple sycamore.”
“You know your trees, then?”
“Oak, birch, golden elm. They watch us.”
“You think so?”
“Next I like best of all, from Russia. Caucasian maple.”
As if in tribute to Olga, the ground around the tree was carpeted with red leaves.
“You’ve lost weight, that’s obvious. But is that the only incentive?”
“I do not understand.”
“What’s the reason behind it, Olga? Are you doing this to surprise your husband when he gets back from his travels?”
“Him?” she said and vibrated her lips.
“I’ve never seen anyone so serious about training as you are.”
“I am Russian.” That, apparently, said it all.
Maeve had a wild thought. “You haven’t secretly entered the Other Half like me?”
The now-familiar chesty laugh erupted. “First lady walker to win.”
“You could walk all the way at this pace and be ahead of some of the runners by the finish.”
“Of course.”
“But you’d tell me if you were in the race?”
“Don’t ask stupid question, Maeve.”
“If you’re not training to race, I’m starting to wonder if you have a secret lover.”
“You think?” More laughter.
The reaction encouraged her to tease Olga a little. “With Konstantin away from home so much, it wouldn’t surprise me. We have a saying: when the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
A frown. “You think I am mouse?”
She seemed to have taken it as an insult, so Maeve laughed to show she was joking. “Far from it. All woman, definitely.”
But the mood had changed. “I tell you something. I am Olga, right?”
“That’s what you told me.”
“My mother and father called me this name.”
“Same for me,” Maeve said. “That’s what happens.”
“My mother she is Russian, but I am born in Ukraine. They choose Olga after famous lady, Olga of Kiev. You know?”
“I can’t say I do.”
“She is princess and saint, more than thousand years ago.”
“Nice to be named after a saint.”
Meant as a compliment, this cracked Olga up so much that she had to stop walking and lean against a tree, shaking with laughter. “Saint Olga is killer. Many, many times killer.”
“How was that?”
“She is married to Prince Igor.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“No, no, no. Prince Igor of Kiev, very strong leader, he conquer tribe called Drevlians. When Igor go to collect tribute, Drevlians make revenge. Take two birch trees like this.” She pointed upwards with both hands. “Tie ropes high up and bend, bend, bend right over, fix to Igor’s feet. Trees spring back and Igor is two piece.”
“Torn apart? What a horrible way to die.”
“So Princess Olga hate Drevlian tribe.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
They started the striding again, and Olga continued the tale.
“Now she is widow, with three-year-old son who will be next ruler of Kievan Rus’, but, until boy is grown-up, Olga is ruler. You understand?”
“We’d call her the regent.”
“Okay. She is regent. But smart-ass Drevlians have plan. There is Drevlian prince called Mal. If Mal marry Olga, then Mal becomes ruler of tribe as he is man.”
“Same old same old.”
“What is this same old?”
“Never mind. Did she marry Mal?”
Olga’s dimples creased a little more. “Drevlians send twenty guys to sweet-talk her, twenty cute guys who are clever with words. What does Olga do? Drop them in ditch and fill with earth.”
“Buried them alive? Ouch!”
“There is more. Olga send message to Drevlians. She can marry Prince Mal if they send more cute guys to travel with her.”
“As escorts?”
“Yes. They send and she is charming. Tells cute guys they can use her bath house. In Russian, banya. They are dusty from long journey. They go in. Olga locks banya, burns it down with Drevlians inside.”
The strong story came over vividly in the pidgin English. The image of the trapped Drevlians was far more compelling than the scene they were passing, the stretch of lawn rising to Henrietta Mews and the high backs of Great Pulteney Street.
“How this woman ever got to be a saint I can’t imagine.”
“Ha. Is nothing yet. She travel to Drevlia with army for great funeral feast for husband Igor. Much drinking. When Drevlians are drunk, her men kill them. Five thousand die. Later, she burn down Drevlian capital city Iskorosten. Many more dead. End of Drevlian tribe. Kaput. Finish.”
“She ordered all this? She’s a mass murderer. How on earth did she get to be a saint?”
“Smart lady, she take Christian faith, baptise in Constantinople. This is big, big deal, new thing for Rus’. Olga tell all her peoples you better go Christian.”
“Or else...?”
More hearty laughter. “Many do. But her own son is not baptise. He is not Christian.”
“I sense more trouble,” Maeve said.
Olga shook her head. “Olga is Christian now. Commandment of God: no killing.”
“Thou shalt not kill. That must have reined her in a bit.”
“She is patient. She speak to grandson, Prince Vladimir. You better become Christian when you are ruler. And Vladimir has good sense and all of Kievan Rus’ goes Christian.”
“Thanks to Olga’s persuasive powers.”
“She is first saint of Russian church. All Russians know her.”
“And you’re Olga as well? I’d better not mess with you.”
Olga laughed again. “Don’t even think.” And she lifted her chin a fraction higher. “Don’t call me mouse again.”
Maeve decided against explaining the cat and mouse proverb. She didn’t want to cause more offence than she already had.
The Olga of Kiev story had to be a mix of folk history and myth, but Maeve had the strong impression that every gruesome detail of it mattered profoundly. Olga identified with her namesake, and not just her evangelism. She was not unwilling to be associated with the violence. Underlying it all was the message that anyone who took her for a softie, or, worse still, a laughing stock, would come to regret it.
Her own training progressed well. After Trevor the PE teacher had told her about the lactic threshold, she’d done some internet research of her own on the science of running and she could easily have talked back to him about oxygen debt, the same peril under another name. For a few days he didn’t pester her about the running because he didn’t spend much time in the staffroom and, when he did, he sat in a corner using his laptop. She heard he was flat-hunting with the aim of moving closer to the school.