The Lost Souls of Angelkov (32 page)

Antonina sits behind Konstantin’s desk and looks at Mikhail’s note again. The page is from Misha’s composition notebook, the one he grabbed as he ran from the music salon the day he was taken.

The note is written in charcoal and has some words scratched out in Mikhail’s usual style. As she runs her fingers over the writing, Lev, unhurt, is galloping away from the estate through the newly planted fields.

Antonina goes to Konstantin’s room and shows her husband the note.

He swats it away. “It’s a ruse. He’s dead.”

“Konstantin. It’s his handwriting, on a page from his own music notebook.”

“It could have been written long ago.”

“No. He says—look—
I pray every day that I will come home for my birthday at the end of this month
. His birthday is at the end of the month, Kostya. He wrote it in the last few days. He’s coming back to us, Kostya. I gave the man more money, and now he will be returned.”

“Are you an idiot?” Konstantin stands and hits Antonina across the face with the back of his only hand. He loses his balance but manages to remain standing.

The unexpected blow is painful, but she says, defiantly, “He’s coming home.” Then she leaves her husband, going to her room to put a cold cloth on her cut and swelling lip.

The day after Antonina received Mikhail’s note, she rises from her rumpled bed with purpose. She has hope—real hope—and suddenly wants to go to church. She wants to thank God for listening to her prayers.

She dresses and slips from the house and across the yard; she doesn’t want even Lilya to come with her. She walks through the small copse of trees near the estate and arrives at Angelkov’s Church of the Redeemer. Behind the church is a cemetery where lilies of the valley flower profusely, and the lilacs are beginning to bloom, their hanging cones of mauve and white blossoms swaying in a soft breeze. There is warbling from the taller oaks. Even with the beautiful weather and the blossoming trees and flowers, the cemetery looks melancholy. There is a sense of disorder, perhaps even chaos. Many of the headstones are listing after the wet spring, the uneven earth humped and dipping, nettles and weedy grass overtaking the graves. It’s clear that no one tends to the graveyard anymore. The serf who once looked after it must be one of those who has left the estate; Father Cyril has not come to her to ask that someone else be assigned. Or perhaps he has, on one of the occasions she refused to see him.

Because it’s a balmy day, the church door is open. There are only a few benches along the back wall for the oldest or infirm to sit on during the two- to three-hour sermons. All the other worshippers stand or kneel. The stained glass windows of saints and the Madonna and Child, which Konstantin had imported from Italy, glow, throwing their prisms onto the floor. The rows and rows of little red glass candle holders are serenely comforting, although only one candle flickers
this morning. Antonina dips a taper into its flame and lights a candle for her son.

The church brings her an immediate comfort. She lights more candles, watching the flames flare briefly and then burn with a steady pulse. Antonina has the small church to herself, apart from a man in dusty overalls above her on some scaffolding, repainting the trim around the edge of the high domed ceiling. The only sound he makes is a slight shuffling as his boots move along the rough board that supports him.

Antonina forgets him once she’s prostrate on the floor, arms spread wide and forehead pressed onto the cold stone. She lies there for much of an hour, thanking God for keeping her son alive. And then she has a vision. It may be brought on by her lack of food and proper sleep, but she sees, on the darkness of her closed eyelids, something soft and white.

It is a comforting, floating vision.

Yes, it could be another bird, not like the one she saw when she’d taken too much laudanum and bromide. This is a white bird, its feathers delicate, its eyes kind. It could also be an angel, couldn’t it? Antonina wants to think that an angel hovers over her.

The vision is so beautiful that she feels uplifted in tandem with the angel or bird. A warm, lovely calm comes over her. She hasn’t felt this sense of calm for so long, not even before Mikhail was taken. When has Antonina ever felt such peace? Maybe not since she was an innocent child on her father’s estate. It may be that she is only falling into a natural deep sleep; it’s been so long since she slept peacefully. But whatever it is, the clarity of the vision makes her cry. Her tears fall onto the stone floor. In her head she watches the angel, or bird, swoop back and forth, back and forth, in a peaceful
rhythm. Finally it comes to rest over her, motionless. It is as if the winged figure is caught on an updraft of fragrant air from the lit candles.

It hangs over her for an indescribable length of time: seconds, minutes, Antonina can’t know. Then it slowly, almost languorously, moves its wings.

Antonina doesn’t want it to fly away. She wants it to stay over her, blessing her. But the wings move faster and faster, and she hears them fluttering, and strangely, now, it’s outside her head, not inside. Without warning, she’s pulled back to reality. There’s a harsh human cry, which makes Antonina open her eyes, confused, and in the same moment a crash. Something glances off the back of her hand. She winces, her shoulders tensing, and in the silence that follows, lies there, stunned.

“I’m sorry, countess, my deepest apologies,” she hears from above her. “A swallow … there’s a nest here. It startled me, and I almost fell. I grabbed … the panel broke off … I’m so sorry, countess.” The man’s voice is threaded with panic.

Antonina pushes herself to her knees. To her right is a pile of white and gold plaster, broken into jagged pieces. Among them is a little golden cherub, perhaps three inches long. Surely it was this that hit her hand. It lies there, undamaged apart from a tiny chip at the end of one gleaming wing.

She picks it up and stands, craning her head to see the man in overalls leaning out over the scaffolding. “I’m so sorry, countess,” he calls down again.

Antonina nods at him, but holds the cherub tightly. She knows what it means—this baby angel falling from the skies to her. She’s been waiting and watching for any small sign, anything she can cling to. First was the note from Misha,
then the vision, and now this. It’s more than enough. Her prayers have been answered.

Just as the cherub has fallen to her from out of the skies, one wing only slightly marred, Antonina is now certain that her son will be returned to her.

She passes Olga on the stairs to her room.

“How are you this morning, madam?” Olga asks, peering at Antonina’s split lip.

“I’m fine,” Antonina says. She keeps her hand with the cherub in it hidden in the folds of her skirt. She wants to go to her room and think about what has happened, but when she gets there, she finds her husband.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

He’s hunched over her writing desk. The drawers are opened and papers are strewn on the floor. An inkwell has been spilled. Tinka is quaking behind the chair by the fireplace.

“I’m looking for my money. You’re stealing from me,” he says harshly. His sleeve is pinned up over the missing arm.

“Konstantin, stop it. Of course I’m not stealing—I’m your wife.” She’s careful to stay where she is, near the door.

“Everyone is stealing. I dismissed Pavel, the useless bastard. I found him wearing my riding boots.”

Antonina glances at his feet; they’re bare. “Konstantin,” she says softly. “Wait here. I’m going to—”

But he rushes towards her, his face so dark it’s almost plum-coloured. She’s frozen with shock for a second, and then she runs into the hall, shouting for Pavel, for Lilya, for anyone to help her. Konstantin comes after her, grabbing
her by the shoulder. His breath is foul, his pupils huge and black. There is noise and confusion, servants screaming, thundering footsteps on the stairs, Tinka’s frantic barking. And then Grisha is there, encircling Konstantin with his arms so that the old man lets go of Antonina, struggling, still trying to kick her with his bare feet.

Grisha, now aided by Pavel, gets Konstantin back to his room. Antonina follows them, her hand over her mouth. As Grisha holds Konstantin tightly, Pavel waves a bottle under Konstantin’s nose. “Breathe, count. Come, breathe as usual,” Pavel says.

Konstantin inhales deeply, and grows calm enough to be pushed into a chair. He slumps, his mouth open and eyes closed.

“What’s wrong with him?” Antonina asks. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, countess,” Pavel tells her. “But it’s all right now. I’ll keep him from becoming agitated again.”

“Come away,” Grisha tells her, taking her arm. He leads her to her bedroom. Antonina is trembling violently, and Grisha helps her to her chair by the fireplace. He pours her a glass of water, but when he brings it to her, she shakes her head.

“Vodka,” she says, “in my wardrobe.”

Grisha’s dark, wavy hair is unruly, his cheeks flushed from his tussle with Konstantin. He studies her swollen, scabbed lip for a moment before opening the double doors and looking, with a puzzled expression, at her gowns.

“Reach behind,” she says. “There’s a shelf with a bottle.”

He does as she asks, and pours her a glass.

“Have one,” she tells him, but he shakes his head. “What will we do about him, Grisha?”

“I’ll send for the doctor.” But he doesn’t leave. “Countess, I’m sorry for all that’s happened. I’m so sorry.”

“None of it is your fault.” She sips the vodka, mindful of her damaged lip. “I’m grateful to have you to depend on. I couldn’t run the estate without you.” She takes another sip. “He said he dismissed Pavel. Please, tell Pavel he’s to stay, of course.”

Lilya appears in the doorway. She looks affronted to find Grisha in the bedroom. “Madam,” she says, “I just heard. I was in the hothouse, cutting you some roses. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Antonina says. “Could you clean up the mess? The ink … it’s stained the rug. But take Tinka outside first—she’s terrified.”

Lilya scoops up the shivering dog and leaves with her, casting a look behind her at the steward.

“Thank you, Grisha. You may go too,” she tells him. “I’m all right now.” She finishes the glass of vodka.

Grisha stoops to pick up something from the mess. “Madam?” he says, standing and holding out the cherub. It has only one wing now.

She has forgotten about the angel in all the chaos; she dropped it as Konstantin came at her. She sets down her empty glass and takes it. “But it’s broken,” she says, and this small fact is enough to bring tears to her eyes.

Grisha looks from the cherub to the floor. “Here, countess. Look. Here’s the wing. I’ll repair it. Give it to me, and I’ll affix the wing right away.” He holds out his hand.