‘Zoya,’ I said, turning back to her, but she was no longer beside me. I looked around anxiously and it took only a moment to locate her. She had slipped into the garden that stood between us and the palace door, and was sitting by the side of the fountain. I watched her, remembering when I had seen her at that fountain once before, in profile, and as I did so she turned her head and looked at me and smiled.
She might have been a girl again.
We walked slowly back towards the hotel along the bank of the Neva.
‘Palace Bridge,’ said Zoya, pointing towards the great structure that connected the city, from the Hermitage across to Vasilievsky Island. ‘They finished it.’
I laughed out loud. ‘Finally,’ I said. ‘All those years of a half-completed structure. First, they couldn’t complete it in case the noise kept you awake at nights, and then—’
‘The war,’ said Zoya.
‘Yes, the war.’
We stopped and looked at it, and felt a surge of pride in the fact of it. It was a good thing. It had been completed at last. Connections could now be made with those on the island. They were no longer alone.
‘My apologies,’ said a voice to our right and we turned to see an elderly man, dressed in a heavy greatcoat and scarf. ‘Could I trouble you for a light?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, glancing at the unlit cigarette he held out towards me. ‘I’m afraid I don’t smoke.’
‘Here,’ said Zoya, reaching into her bag and removing a packet of matches; she didn’t smoke either and it surprised me that she would have them, but then the contents of my wife’s handbag have long been a mystery to me.
‘Thank you,’ said the man, taking the box. I glanced to his left and noticed his companion – his wife, I assumed – staring at Zoya. They were about the same age, but, like my wife, age had not diminished her beauty. Indeed, her elegant features were spoiled only by a scar that ran along her left cheek to a point below the cheekbone. The man, who was handsome with thick white hair, lit his cigarette, smiled and thanked us.
‘Enjoy your evening,’ he said and I nodded.
‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘And you.’
He turned to take his wife’s hand and she was staring at Zoya with an expression of tranquillity upon her face. None of the four of us spoke for a moment and then, finally, the woman bowed her head.
‘May I have your blessing?’ she asked.
‘My blessing?’ asked Zoya, the words catching in her throat even as she said them.
‘Please, Highness.’
‘You have it,’ she said. ‘And for what little it is worth, I hope that it brings you peace.’
It’s bright now, it’s morning time, and the living room looks cold and unwelcoming as I open the door and let myself in. I stop for a moment, glance towards the table, the cooker, the armchairs, the bedroom, this small place where we have made our lives together, and hesitate. I’m not sure if I can go any further.
‘You don’t have to come back here,’ says Michael, also hesitating in the doorway behind me. ‘It’s probably a good idea if you come back with me and dad today, don’t you think?’
‘I will,’ I say, shaking my head and stepping forward into the room. ‘Later on. Tonight, perhaps. Not right now, if you don’t mind. I think I’d like to be here. It’s my home, after all. If I don’t come in now, I never will.’
He nods and closes the door and we both step into the centre of the room, take our coats off and place them on one of the chairs.
‘Tea?’ he asks, already filling the kettle, and I smile and nod. He’s so English.
He leans against the sink as he waits for the kettle to boil and I sit down in my own armchair and smile at him. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a comic message printed across the front; I like that – it didn’t even occur to him to dress in a more sober fashion.
‘Thank you, by the way,’ I tell him.
‘For what?’
‘For coming to the hospital last night. You and your father. I’m not sure that I could have got through the night without you.’
He shrugs and I wonder for a moment whether he is going to start crying again; three or four times over the course of the night he has broken down in tears. Once when I told him that his grandmother had passed away. Once when he came in to see her. Once when I took him in my arms.
‘Of course I’d be there,’ he says, his voice nervous and emotional. ‘Where else would I have been?’
‘Thank you anyway,’ I say. ‘You’re a good boy.’
He nods and wipes his eyes, then puts teabags into two cups and fills them with boiling water, pressing them against the sides with a teaspoon rather than making a pot. If his grandmother was here, she’d roast him alive.
‘You don’t have to think about it right now,’ he says, sitting opposite me and putting the cups down. ‘But you know that you can come to ours, don’t you? To live, I mean. Dad will be fine with it.’
‘I know,’ I say, smiling. ‘And I’m grateful to you both. But I think not. I’m healthy still, don’t you think? I can manage. You will visit me though, won’t you?’ I ask nervously, unsure why I am asking this since I already know the answer.
‘Of course I will,’ he says, his eyes opening wide. ‘God. Every day, if I can.’
‘Michael, if you come here every day, I won’t open the door,’ I tell him. ‘Once a week will be fine. You have a life of your own to lead.’
‘Twice a week, then,’ he says.
‘Fine,’ I say, not looking to strike any deals.
‘And you know my play is coming up, don’t you? Two weeks from now. You’ll be there for opening night, won’t you?’
‘I’ll try,’ I say, unsure whether I can really go without Zoya by my side. Without Anastasia. I can see the look of disappointment on his face and I smile and reassure him. ‘I’ll do my best, Michael,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
‘Thanks.’
We sit and talk for a little while longer and then I tell him that he should go home now, that he must be tired, he’s been up all night.
‘I will if you’re sure,’ he says, standing up and stretching his arms in the air, yawning loudly. ‘I mean, I could sleep here if you want.’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s time you went home. We both need some sleep. And I think I’d like a little time on my own anyway, if you don’t mind.’
‘OK,’ he says, putting his coat on. ‘I’ll call around later tonight and see how you’re getting on. There’s…’ He hesitates, but decides just to say it. ‘You know, there’s arrangements that have to be made.’
‘I know,’ I say, walking towards the door with him. ‘But we can talk about them later. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Later then, Pops,’ he says, reaching forward and kissing my cheek, hugging me, and then pulling away before I can see the expression of grief on his face. I watch as he bounds up the steps towards the street, those long, muscular legs of his that can take him anywhere he wants to go. To be so young again. I watch and wonder at how he always manages to leave just as a bus is appearing, as if he refuses to waste even a moment of his life by waiting on a street corner. He jumps on the back of it and raises a hand to me, the uncrowned Tsar of all the Russias waving at his grandfather from the back of a London bus as it speeds off down the street while a conductor approaches him, demanding money for his fare.
It’s enough to make me laugh. I close the door behind me and sit down again, considering this, and truly, I find it so funny that I laugh until I cry.
And when the tears come I think aah…