The Lost Souls of Angelkov (45 page)

“Well?” Aleksandr said. “What do you think?”

The maestro nodded again, studying Aleksandr’s pallor, the skin stretched tight over his gaunt face. He saw how the man tried to stifle the deep, wet cough in his handkerchief, and knew that the consumption would claim him before the month was out. “He has a considerable talent.”

“I propose a situation to you,” Aleksandr said, and the maestro nodded a third time. He understood there was a situation. “I wish my boy to have the best life he can. There is little possibility for one of his talent here in Chita. I know he is only a child—he is just past eight—but is it not better to start with professional training when young?”

“You wish to send your son to Irkutsk with me?” the maestro asked, not wanting to waste time when he knew the eventual question.

“I wish him to be able to make the most of his talent,” Aleksandr said. It was growing harder to control the coughing, and he had already gone through three handkerchiefs,
immediately folding them in his lap so the maestro wouldn’t see the blood. “He wants nothing more than to play, and his disposition is such that it’s clear this is what he is meant to do. You would find him an attentive and obedient student. If you could tutor him, perhaps … I really don’t expect that he would ever reach Moscow or St. Petersburg, but surely he could find an appreciative audience—and a life—in Irkutsk. As you have.”

The maestro gave him a glance then that was hard to decipher. Aleksandr pressed on.

“Should he remain in Chita, he will spend his life playing alone in his home, or for the occasional peasant wedding. I want more than this for him.” His face contorted, and he coughed so hard into his handkerchief that it sounded like retching.

The maestro brought out his own handkerchief, shielding his nose and mouth. Ula hurried from the kitchen and stood over her husband, her fist pressed against her own mouth as if she too were fighting not to cough. She patted his shoulder with her other hand, murmuring
Sasha, Sasha
.

The coughing fit subsided and Ula again retreated to the kitchen.

The maestro said, “I understand. But the child is very young, and we must be honest and clear here. To take him from his mother … how will he cope? Even to travel with us to Irkutsk—you believe your son can do this?”

The maestro, however, was already envisioning the money he could make with a child of this ability. Within a few short years, the boy could be sold for the highest price to a landowner in the western Russian provinces, as a violinist for his serf orchestra. They were always competing with
each other, these wealthy aristocrats who had nothing better to do than entertain themselves and their guests.

Aleksandr hadn’t responded to the questions.

“I leave in two days,” the maestro said then, slowly. “Could the boy be ready to go by then?”

Aleksandr’s face shone with perspiration. He couldn’t envision Kolya away from his mother and his home, in the care of this stranger. “He will be ready,” he said, fighting his instinct. “And I know he’ll manage the travel. He’s a resilient boy.” It was an outright lie to call Kolya resilient, but he was desperate enough to do this for his son.

Ula came in, carrying the samovar. As she set it in the middle of the table and turned to go back to the kitchen to fetch the cakes, the maestro asked her, “What did you say the boy’s name is?”

“Timofey Aleksandrovitch,” she answered. “He’s past fifteen now. And you can see he’s already a man.”

“No, the other one.”

“Oh. My little one is Nikolai Aleksandrovitch,
moy malishka
. Kolya,” she answered, smiling proudly.

Aleksandr closed his eyes, unable to bear what he was about to do to her. To Kolya. To all of them.

It’s for the best, he told himself, reaching for the bottle of vodka, unaware that flecks of blood dotted his chin.

After the maestro left, he tried to think of a way to tell Ula about his plan for Kolya, to prepare her and make her understand that he was doing it for their child’s future. That she would be able to visit him in Irkustsk: Timofey would make the journey with her at least every summer.

When she came out of the bedroom in the middle of the night to where Aleksandr now slept, propped on the cushioned bench, so as not to cough into her face, he was sitting upright. In the light of the candle she carried he saw concern on her face, but the flame also accentuated the hollows under her eyes and the lines around her mouth. She was suddenly older.

“You’re not coughing, Sasha,” she said. “Why can’t you sleep?”

He looked up at her, her long black braid, now threaded with white, hanging over one shoulder.

“You’re crying,” she said, kneeling beside the bench. “I have never … What is it?”

He couldn’t speak.

“I’ll make some tea,” she said, rising, but he caught her wrist. He took a deep breath and passed his other hand over his eyes, wiping his cheeks.

“It’s the future, Ula,” he said. “I’m worried about what will happen to you and the boys when I’m gone.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ula said, pulling her wrist free.

“We must talk about it. You know it will come. Soon,” he added, and Ula clenched her lips and closed her eyes. “You can’t pretend it isn’t happening,” he said, and at that she also wept, kneeling to lay her head on his knees.

“I have a plan,” he told her, and she raised her face to study his. “For Kolya.” But he couldn’t go on. He knew what it would mean to her to lose Kolya. It would be like a death right before his own. What was he thinking? How could he have imagined it to be a good idea? No. He would write another letter to the maestro, telling him he’d changed his
mind, and send it with Tima tomorrow. He had been impetuous, and foolish.

“It’s Kolya I’m most worried about,” he finished.

Ula nodded. “I know. Tima will be successful with the business. Already I can see this. He works like two men, and is smart with figures. So Kolya can work with him.”

They both knew the last part wasn’t true.

“Don’t you want more for him?”

At this, Ula’s face grew more composed. “It was good enough for my father, and for you. Why shouldn’t it be good enough for the boys? It’s honest work.”

Aleksandr saw that she was pretending not to understand the question. His throat constricted and he fought the first cough, which would lead to prolonged, harsh and harsher coughing, and the eventual hemorrhage. But he was powerless to stop it. As he coughed, bending over, a handkerchief pressed to his mouth to absorb the flood of crimson, Ula hurried to make tea. No more was said about Kolya’s future.

The next morning—a calm spring day, the sky cloudless—the maestro stood in the doorway of Aleksandr’s home.

Tima was working at the cooperage and Kolya was in the boys’ bedroom playing his violin. Aleksandr lay on the padded bench. Ula had taken her basket and gone to the shops. Before she left, Aleksandr had her set out pen and paper and ink. When he had a bit more strength, he would write the letter and have Tima deliver it later in the day.

The sight of the maestro standing in the open doorway sent a chill through Aleksandr’s heated body. His throat was raw from coughing, his whole body feverish and aching. He
could barely pull himself to a sitting position, but he did, shakily smoothing back his hair with one pale hand.

Behind the maestro were the other musicians in an open
tarantass
pulled by three horses.

“Good day, Kasakov,” the maestro said. “I know I’m a day early, but last night the audience was so small and unreceptive—so unappreciative—that I’ve decided it’s not worth our time to play the final concert. Can you make your son ready now?”

Aleksandr didn’t answer, licking his lips. The music in the bedroom stopped.

“Come, now. We had an agreement,” the maestro said, still in the doorway. “I’m leaving Chita immediately, and we need to arrive in the next village before dark.”

Still Aleksandr didn’t speak. As the maestro came into the room to stand in front of him, Kolya stepped out of the bedroom, his violin in one hand and the bow in the other. He was barefoot in the warm weather, and wore a clean white tunic and a pair of dark trousers. Aleksandr noticed—was it for the first time?—the delicacy of his son’s ankles.

Nikolai looked at the maestro and his lips parted in his sweet smile. “Hello, maestro,” he said.

Aleksandr’s chest constricted painfully, and in that moment he knew he had to go through with what he had originally planned—quickly, before he changed his mind again. “Kolya,” he said, “I want you to put on your boots. Then gather your clothes—all of them—and put them in a flour sack. Take one from the kitchen. Also put your violin in its case.”

The boy nodded, going to the kitchen and then back through the sitting room and into his bedroom, the empty
sack under one arm. Aleksandr knew his son wouldn’t question him. He always did what he was told without reservation or hesitation.

While they waited in silence, Aleksandr’s mind raced along with the pounding in his chest. He could feel the burning weight of blood collecting in his lungs. “You’ll be good to the boy,” he said to the maestro. “You can see that he listens well, and obeys. He is …” He stopped. “He is my son. You understand.” He pulled the sheet of blank paper towards him, and shakily and quickly wrote a number of scrawling lines, dotted with falling ink. “He can read, although he may not fully make sense of what this says until he is older. It’s important to me that he understands why this has happened to him. Will you make sure that he doesn’t lose the letter I give him?”

The maestro nodded, but his expression was one of impatience, and Aleksandr didn’t wish him to take the boy while feeling annoyed. “Kolya!” he called, finding sudden strength. “Come. Come here, now.”

The boy came from his room, the bulging sack in one hand and the little leather violin case in the other. He looked at his father, his eyes wide. Aleksandr realized he had frightened him by calling to him in the unfamiliar, loud voice.

“It’s all right, Kolya,” he said quietly. “It’s all right—you’ve done nothing wrong.” Kolya’s shoulders lowered and he smiled at his father. “Kolya,” Aleksandr said then, fighting the dreaded feeling in his chest, “you will go with the maestro.”

Kolya looked at him, his head tilted slightly.

“You will play your violin with the others. It’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to play your violin every day, and make wonderful harmonies.”

Kolya smiled and nodded. “Yes, Papa, I will play my violin with them today, and come home tonight and tell Mama about it.”

Aleksandr closed his eyes. His beautiful, musical Kolya. He put the folded paper into the boy’s tunic pocket. “This you must always keep. Do you understand?” He put Kolya’s hand on the pocket. “It’s very, very important. It says your name, and where you live. It tells my name, and your mother’s, and Tima’s. It also says … It’s a letter, for you to read. You don’t have to read it now. Read it when you are a bigger boy, Kolya. You mustn’t ever lose it.”

Kolya patted the paper, smiling at the rustle, and nodded at his father. “Mama is making
shuba
for supper today. I love chopped herring and egg.”

Aleksandr pulled the boy against his chest. He felt the child’s bones, barely covered with flesh. Then he looked into his narrow face and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You are a good boy. Always remember that your father and mother know you are a good boy. And you are a brilliant musician. Brilliant.”

Again Kolya nodded.

“Go with the maestro now,” Aleksandr said, the cough bubbling up again. “Say goodbye to your papa.” He kissed the boy’s forehead and cheeks, not wanting to touch Kolya’s lips with his own because of his disease.

“Go now,” he urged, wanting his son to leave before the coughing began, knowing too that he was about to cry.