Heart of Iron (10 page)

My first thought was to blame the Nikolashki — only they could’ve seized whatever property they desired without attracting attention, without the newspapers even knowing what was taken, and without having to engineer a fire. Since there were no suspects mentioned, they were not trying to frame anyone either. I decided the crime was genuine — that is, no official governmental bodies were involved.

Of course, my mind could not help but worry at Jack’s sudden appearance on the night that I first met him — he was there, by the club, soon after sunset. That was nothing, I told myself — plenty of people happened to visit the club, and plenty of others had made appearances in places that later became scenes of crimes — why, it was practically impossible to avoid.

I folded the newspaper, finished my bread and butter with grim determination, and decided to go for a walk along the embankment, to clear my head.

Thankfully, the rain had lifted, and the pale sun lit the sky, coloring it pearl gray at first and then pale blue. The tree branches, still studded with water droplets, shone in the sunlight, and as I left the dormitories, I thought of the winter, of how soon enough it would change everything — it would enclose the tree branches with a carapace of ice, as glorious as it was alien and terrifying; I imagined snow crunching underfoot, its virgin expanse quickly tracked and split with many footpaths, like veins on pale skin. I thought of all the birds — yellow, red-breasted — flocking from woods to the cities, to be cooed at and to feed shyly on breadcrumbs and grains of rye thrown to them. I walked alone, tracing the outline of Vasilyevsky Island with my slow footsteps, and thinking about school and Jack.

I tried not to think of my friends, especially of Chiang Tse — I tried not to guess if he had ever encountered snow, or if he would delight in learning to skate on the frozen surface of ponds and lakes. It felt so terribly unfair, that he, perhaps one of the gentlest people I knew, was chased away and denied the opportunity to enjoy the winter in St. Petersburg — not its shallow season and vapid self-aggrandizement, but its true and natural beauty offset by a frame of snow and ice into which it would be placed like a gray precious stone.

I realized then how much I missed Chiang Tse and his friends, how this final violation of their beloved club was a blow struck to a heart already wounded. How I missed them then, and how guilty I felt about the Manchu Wong Jun, locked up in a jail somewhere, not knowing that there were people who still cared about him. I couldn’t imagine whether it would be a comfort if he knew or not.

On Monday, my tormented unease was assuaged by Olga’s return — she did not say it outright, but I suspected her family preferred her here, safely away, where she was fed and looked after and taken care of. I greeted her with open arms, and felt only a small pang of guilt at the selfishness of my joy.

As soon as she had settled — which did not take at all long, seeing how she was gone only a couple of days — I told her about the Northern Star and Crane Club. She seemed, however, less interested in mechanical piano players and robberies than she was in Jack. She made me repeat everything Jack had said to me, and what I said back, and describe the way he was looking at me.

“Clear enough,” she said after our third cup of tea, and sat back in her chair. Anastasia took the gesture as a permission to retire, and was gone in the direction of Natalia Sergeevna’s apartment before I had a chance to dissuade her.

“What’s clear?” I asked, looking after Anastasia longingly. I was hoping for more bread and butter, since worry usually had an effect on my appetite — somehow, the state of the world seemed more tolerable to me when there was fresh and crusty bread and the sensation of butter melting on my tongue.

“He loves you,” Olga explained, exasperated with my stupidity. “How can you not see it?”

I shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t — he clearly wants to spend time with me. It’s just that I am not sure why.”

“It is obvious,” Olga said and poured herself another cup of tea. There was so much steam in my little living room that the windows had completely fogged over. “Men want to spend time with the girls they like. And he is clearly an important man — I hear that Mr. Herbert is a brilliant politician, and knowing him is quite an honor for anyone. So that Mr. Bartram of yours is obviously a great catch — and he is certainly interested in you. The only question is, are you interested? Do you think you love him?”

“I cannot say that the question had occurred to me,” I mumbled, and bit into a lump of sugar like a peasant, chasing it with a sip of very strong tea. “How do you know if you love someone? How do you even know what love is — I mean, if you never felt it, how do you know what it’s supposed to feel like, and if you’re feeling it right, and if what you’re feeling even has a name?”

Olga stared at me in dismay. “You speak such nonsense, Sasha. What is it with you?”

I only shrugged. I never knew what it was with me, how things that apparently looked like simple questions and basic emotions to others grew enormously complicated for me — I felt as if I was tripping over my own feet, trying to disentangle meanings of words such as “love” and “interest” and “like” and “friendship.” They seemed simple on the surface, but the moment I attempted to use these words as measuring sticks against which to hold my emotions, they wriggled and slipped away, leaving only confusion and frustration behind.

Olga attempted to help — at least I think that is what she meant when she said, “All right then. Think about how you feel when you see him. If he were standing outside of this window right now — what would you feel?”

I smudged the condensation on the windowpane, clearing a sickle-shaped sliver of clear glass. There was fog outside, its tendrils rising from the ground and curling into the mist that already concealed everything from view, except the gas streetlamps and their reflections in the Neva. There were lights on the opposite bank but only vague and blurred, distorted by the fog like ghost lanterns. Jack was not there but I could picture him clearly as I said, “I would be glad, I suppose. A little embarrassed that he’s out there for all to see, so obvious. Maybe a bit angry because he is so conspicuous, as if trying to make me feel guilty for not returning his affection quickly enough. I would be curious too, and impatient to ask him about his friends, his work, what they want with the Chinese — or with the Russians, for that matter.”

Olga heaved a sigh and shook her head. “You are making it so very complicated, Sasha, and it doesn’t need to be. Life is really very simple.”

I nodded as if I agreed to avoid further argument, but my mind raced. It was nowhere as simple as Olga claimed. To her, life was people falling in love and marrying. But I did not understand love, as I did not understand its connection to marriage. Eugenia’s words from my childhood, forgotten until now — until I actually needed them — floated to the surface. “Marrying is not difficult,” she said. “Who isn’t smart enough to make babies? Only this is the thing, Sasha — love is nothing, it is empty. If you must marry, don’t marry someone you love — you’re too much of a fool for that; we all are. Instead marry a man who is kind to you and who would be your friend ten, twenty years later. Love passes by all too quickly, and if you must be stuck with someone, at least make sure you can stand him.”

“I don’t love anyone,” I told Olga. “I am much too preoccupied with other things. If I drop out of the university to get married, my aunt would never forgive me.” Olga moved to say something, but I held up my hand. “I mean it. I’ll be dead before I let anything interfere with my schooling — even if that something is the most wonderful man in the world.”

Olga took a long sip of her piping hot tea. “You’ll change your mind,” she said. “You just wait.”

I did not argue, but thought bitterly to myself that everyone seemed to think they knew more about me than I did, from Dame Nightingale to my best friend. Oh, how I hoped they were wrong.

I spent more time with Jack, since every conversation I attempted to have with Olga ended up with her asking about him anyway. Jack was a pleasant companion in his own right, even if one were to ignore the fact I attempted to use our new closeness to find answers to the questions that plagued me. He, however, was very good at avoiding sly hints and the subtle verbal traps I set for him. When the break came to an end, I knew no more about his purpose, Dame Nightingale, or the burglary at the Crane Club than I did when it started.

The last Sunday before the classes were set to resume, Jack and I went for a walk along the Nevsky Prospect. It was late October, and the snowfall and the cutting winter winds were not far away. I was eager to enjoy the last of the tolerable weather, even if it meant contending with light rain and occasional wind gusts forceful enough to almost rip the hat off my head despite many pins specifically embedded to keep it in place.

Jack too had to keep vigilant hold of his hat. He did not look particularly pleased about the walk, but I described the horses at the Anichkov Bridge and the impression they made on me last year, and he agreed to pay them a visit. As we both stood transfixed — I was caught up anew in the violent yet still life of the sculpture — my thoughts churned. It was as if the horses gave me the presence of mind and courage to enunciate the question to which I so desired — and perhaps dreaded — an answer.

“Mr. Bartram,” I said then, “Do you know what happened with the Crane Club? Did you have anything to do with it?”

He kept looking at the horses, his head tilted back, one gloved hand holding the brim of his hat. His eyes, squinting against the wind, did not change their expression and the Adam’s apple on his long pale throat did not bob. Yet, like the sculpture he was studying, his still frame filled with silent tension, and just like that, without him uttering a word or making a gesture, I knew.

“No,” he said after a very long pause. “Why would you think that?”

“That night, you were at the club.”

“I was just passing by.”

“And at the Northern Star… that awful lady told you to remember your loyalties. The Crane Club was vandalized, soon after.”

He finally looked away from the bridge, his eyes meeting mine. His coat flapped, and something twinged in the depths of my memory. “And why would one thing have anything to do with another?”

“Your country was at war with China.”

He smiled, as if I were a child he had decided to indulge a bit longer. “We have signed a peace treaty. But even if we had not… do you think ransacking a Chinese club is the same as declaring military hostilities? It was more likely some drunks or thieves who were hoping to find alcohol in that place — it was all but abandoned recently. So they took some trinkets to sell. Really, Sasha, you’re too smart for your own good — you’re making things so complicated.”

I did feel very young and very foolish then. “We can go,” I whispered.

He offered me his elbow and I hooked my hand over the crook of his arm. “Don’t feel bad,” he said. “I know you are upset about your friends. Only I wish you wouldn’t cast me as an enemy.”

Those words made me blush. “I remember that you saved us,” I said. “You saved me twice, and I told you I was grateful. But there are things happening now that I do not understand, all I know is that I do not trust Prince Nicholas and his secret police, and I do not trust your Dame Nightingale.”

He seemed amused by my words, as we turned toward the Palace Square. “She may be a bit brash,” he said.

“And a bit rude,” I added. “I really don’t appreciate being insulted, but this is not why I do not trust her. I think she may be a spy.”

His face retained the same smiling expression but mirth left it momentarily, only to return with an exaggerated chuckle. “Nonsense,” he said.

I thought he was an awful liar but did not challenge him, content to see my guess hit near its target. “And you are here to help Nicholas,” I said. “The gendarmes listened to you. What do you want with the Chinese? Is this why Nightingale and Herbert are here?”

He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I cannot tell you much, but be assured that it has little to do with your friends. However, I can say Prince Nicholas once sought an alliance with Britain to help protect Russia from the Chinese threat.”

I snorted. “This is nonsense. There is no threat.”

Jack only shrugged. “If you say so. If there’s no threat then the Chinese have nothing to fear.”

“This is not true and you know it,” I said. “There has been enough damage done already, and I still don’t know what happened to Wong Jun.”

“I cannot help you.”

“I do not need you to.” I freed my arm from his. “I wrote to my aunt about this injustice, although in vague terms and naming no names.” I had learned from my encounter with the police. “I expect she will set things straight when she arrives in December.”

A gust of wind grabbed my shawl and flapped it in my face while simultaneously tearing off Jack’s hat — he had foolishly forgotten to maintain a grip. He lunged after it, just as the wind picked up force and hurled the hat down the street with the speed of a locomotive.

“You can always get another,” I said, but discovered Jack was no longer in my immediate proximity — somehow, he was a few hundred feet ahead, picking up his hat from the pavement and shaking it free of puddle water. I was still rubbing my eyes when he returned to my side. “How—” I started to ask.

“I was a sprint runner when I was younger,” he said with an apologetic smile.

But that was no sprint. That night at the Crane Club I had been willing to let myself believe panic and darkness had deceived my eyes, but now, in somewhat weak but sufficient light of the afternoon, I had no excuse. He had not run, he had hurled himself… flew… jumped… he moved faster than was possible, faster than my eyes could follow him. I realized he had, indeed, fallen out of the sky that night.