The Other Story (31 page)

It was Anna Akhmatova’s communal apartment near the Fontanka canal, where she lived for thirty years, that moved Nicolas the most, in a way he could not entirely explain or describe. The humble kitchen with its dingy sink bore the vestiges of troubled times, hardship, and suffering. It was from this tranquil spot that Akhmatova watched with dread as her city endured revolution, civil war, political terror, world war. He spent a while in her room, observing her low bed, her high wooden desk. When he left the premises, it was dark already. A large marmalade-colored cat mewed at him as he walked away.

The next morning, after a more restful night, he left the hotel early again with Lisaveta Sapounova’s address in his pocket. He stepped out of the building, turned left, and took the second street on the left, following her map. He came to a large canal that he had already seen the day before, near Akhmatova’s house. “Fontanka,” Lisaveta Sapounova had written in her neat handwriting. He paused for a while, looking around him at the gray-blue expanse of water, the patrician buildings lining it, their subtle, mellow colors. He understood now that in the heart of this city, built on a marsh by a tsar who hated Moscow, everywhere he looked, his eyes would find something to feast on. But his father had hardly known his birthplace, he reminded himself. How old was he when he left? Six months? A year? Théodore Duhamel had remembered nothing. He’d never come back. Neither had his mother, Nina.

Lisaveta Sapounova lived in a weatherworn edifice that bore a dignified grandeur, its crumbling facade decorated with Greek-like pillars and high square windows. Nicolas went up a large antique staircase that seemed about to collapse; graffiti had been sprayed all over the peeling paint of the walls. “Door number three,” she had written. He knocked. Nothing happened. He noticed a small doorbell, and pressed it. Somewhere in the recesses of the ancient house, a faraway tinkle was heard. Then the quick tap of footsteps. The old locks whirred and groaned. The door opened with a whine. Lisaveta Sapounova led him into a single enormous room with the highest ceiling he had ever seen. The view over the Fontanka was extraordinary. He went straight to one of the bay windows and cried out in delight. She watched him, nodding and smiling. He finally tore his eyes from the canal and looked at her. She was wearing a dark brown dress that had a 1940s look. Her hair was tied back. He could not help noticing her slim waist. She held herself straight, hands on a chair, standing in front of a round table, on which he saw a glistening samovar and a porcelain tea set.

The room was entirely lined with books—Russian, French, German, and English. In one corner stood an old-fashioned four-poster bed with faded gold-and-blue curtains. In front of the windows was a long desk, on which he saw a computer, notebooks, pens and papers, icons, and a miniature malachite pyramid. A sagging crimson velvet sofa and some Moroccan poufs were arranged facing a vast stone fireplace in which a modern kitchen unit had been built.

“This used to be a ballroom,” Lisaveta Sapounova explained. “That’s why it is so big. Years ago, everything was divided and split up. The Soviet era left its scars.” She pointed to long marks and traces along the walls and ceilings. “Look, there. Another floor was built, to house even more people. It was knocked down, thankfully, in the nineties. I have only one room. One big room.”

He wondered if she lived alone. There were no signs of a husband or children. He guessed there was a bathroom behind a folding screen.

“Please call me Lisa. Tell me about yourself,” she said once they were seated. He watched her work the samovar. She had delicate white hands. No wedding ring. “Are you a student?”

He told her about his private lessons. Then he went straight on to how he had discovered his father’s real name. He explained how his family had never talked about it. He showed her his father’s and Nina’s birth certificates. She looked at them and said, “Your grandmother was born in an ancient clinic near the Tauride Gardens, which is now a university.”

“And my father?” asked Nicolas.

“Not in a hospital. Pisareva Street. I can take you to the address. It is not too far from here. We can walk.”

She handed him some toast, butter, and jam.

“What else can I do to help you?”

“I don’t know. I’m lost,” he admitted sheepishly. “I don’t know where and how to begin.”

“Well,” she said, “we could go to the registry office of the Admiralteysky District, which is the area your family lived in. Perhaps we can look up your great-grandparents.”

“Thank you,” he said. “This is very kind of you.”

“In Russian, we say
spassiba,
Nikolaï.” Again she pronounced his name in the Russian manner and flashed her rare smile at him. “And your father, Fiodor in Russian, Théodore in French. Did you know they were the same names?”

“No,” said Nicolas.

“Did your father or grandmother ever speak in Russian?”

“No, never,” he said.

They ate the rest of the meal in silence.

“Our city has a history of pain and glory, and we still bear that stigmata today,” said Lisa Sapounova as, later, she led him along wide streets humming with traffic, sometimes pausing to point out a monument, a statue, a bridge, a church.

In the registry office, Nicolas sat waiting in a dismal, ungainly hall that throbbed with the legacy of beleaguered times and the oppressive stamp of
nomenklatura.
The people working there did not have smiling faces. Lisa Sapounova explained that this was the Russian manner, a sort of gruff protection. It did not mean they were all unfriendly.

A few moments later, she brandished a sheet of paper. “Look, Nikolaï,” she said triumphantly. “That wasn’t very difficult.”

He glanced down at the sheet of paper. There wasn’t a single word he could decipher.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, sitting down next to him. “I’m sorry. You don’t read Russian. Let me translate. So. This, here, says that your great-grandmother Natacha Ivanovna Levkina died in 1982, and your great-grandfather Vladimir Nicolaevitch Koltchine in 1979. And, here, a list of their children.”

“My grandmother Nina.”

“Yes, Zinaïda, and the other child.”

“The other child?” asked Nicolas, surprised.

He stared down at the paper.

“
Da,
look,” said Lisa Sapounova. “This here means your grandmother Zinaïda Vladimirovna, born in 1945. She was born right after the siege, like many babies at that time. This, here, is another name, a brother born before her. You see?”

The cheerless hall fell silent. From down the corridor, Nicolas heard the patter of footsteps, some voices. Then silence descended, again.

“What is his name?” asked Nicolas warily, but he already knew.

“Alexeï Vladimirovitch. Born in 1940.”

As he later followed Lisa Sapounova to this father’s birthplace on nearby Pisareva Street, Nicolas was quiet. She seemed to understand, without having to be told, that he did not want to talk. He kept his head down, his eyes on the pavement. He did not look up once, except to admire the golden Baroque spires and domes of St. Nicholas Cathedral. He did not want to voice the questions that were whirling around in his head. Was Alexeï still alive? His great-grandparents’ certificates bore no mention of his death. But their daughter’s death in 2000 was not mentioned, either. Nicolas wondered whether he should try to find Alexeï. Was it worth going through all this trouble?

“It is here,” said Lisa Sapounova, halting.

The tall ocher building in front of them was old, its facade a mesh of cracks and patchy spots. It had a large arched doorway, five floors, divided into numerous apartments. This area, Kolumna, had changed for the better and was still changing, explained Lisa Sapounova. It had been derelict and run-down for many years; some streets in the neighborhood were still insalubrious. It had a scruffy, poorer look to it. Nicolas looked up at the many windows, where he could glimpse potted plants, different colored curtains and blinds. Behind one of those windows, his father had drawn his first breath. Underneath that arched doorway, Zinaïda had left forever, holding Fiodor in her arms. He asked Lisa Sapounova if she had noticed his grandmother’s age when Fiodor Koltchine, her son, was born. Lisa Sapounova said she had. Fifteen years old. His grandmother had probably hidden her pregnancy till the end, and the child had been born here, in the family home. It had no doubt been difficult for Nina’s parents, for her. It was hard to imagine the lives of people living in this city forty-five years ago, she went on. So many aspects had changed drastically. Even she herself, born and bred in the city, who had witnessed the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, found it arduous to describe the extent of the transformation. Nicolas asked if she had any idea how his grandmother could have met Lionel Duhamel, the young businessman who was to adopt her child, and to wed her, a year later, in France. No, she did not, and it would be hard to find out. But with a little imagination, one could think of options, she mused. If his grandmother had been a pretty girl, then it made things easier. Pretty girls got attention, even during the Cold War. Had Nicolas ever thought about the love factor? she asked, unsmilingly. The love factor did make things much simpler, didn’t it? Maybe Lionel Duhamel had come to attend a conference at one of the universities, and perhaps Zinaïda had accompanied an older friend there. That was all it took. Love was all Lionel Duhamel would have needed to get Nina and her child out of the Soviet Union. Was Lionel Duhamel well-off? she asked. Did he have money? He did, Nicolas told her. Well, then, there was his answer, love and the right amount of rubles placed in the right hands. No need to look further, she said. Nicolas looked down at Lisa Sapounova, a trim figure in her dark raincoat. Perhaps she was right, he said, but to him, there was another element, something else. His grandmother had wanted to flee this country, to change her name, to never come back, to erase everything Russian about her. Why?

During long parts of the night, while Erik or Anders, along with a recently arrived Dutchman, snored, Nicolas lay on his back and thought of Alexeï. Was this the Alexeï who wrote that letter in 1993? Why had Nina never mentioned her family in Saint Petersburg, her parents, her brother? Why had she crossed them out of her life?

The following day, Lisa Sapounova met Nicolas at the youth hostel to inform him she had been able to locate where his grandparents were buried, thanks to a friend who worked at the archives office that held the records for all the Saint Petersburg cemeteries. The Volkovo Cemetery was situated at the south of the city. Metro line five took them straight there. Ivan Turgenev was also buried at Volkovo, she informed Nicolas on their way, as well as Lenin’s mother. When they arrived, Nicolas was surprised. He had never seen a graveyard with so many trees. Although it was November, and most of them had lost their leaves, he imagined the greenness of spring and summer. The place was deserted and silent. The tombs bore Russian crosses, and on many were enameled photographs of the deceased. The more ancient tombs were slanted, mossy, their lettering faded. The alleys were long and humid, often muddy. Lisa Sapounova’s small feet in their elegant high-heeled lace-up boots deftly avoided the puddles. The air was moist and earthy. Vladimir and Natacha. Nicolas knew nothing of them. How strange to be coming now to their grave. The great-grandson they never knew. It took a while for Lisa Sapounova to find the tomb. She kept looking down at her map. Suddenly, she stopped. She leaned over, put her hand on a railing surrounding a grave, and said in a low voice, “This is it. Here they are. Koltchine.”

A Russian cross, made of stone. A black marble grave.

“Oh, wait!” Lisa Sapounova exclaimed. “Oh, look…”

Nicolas leaned closer. He could not read the names, but he saw the enameled photographs. A black-and-white image of a couple in their fifties: a man with a long, narrow face and a gentle smile, and a woman with rounded cheeks, a scarf around her head. Another photograph showed a younger man, with a face that was so shockingly like his father’s that he gasped.

“Who … who is that?” Nicolas stammered, grasping the railing.

“The couple are your great-grandparents,” said Lisa Sapounova. “The younger man is Alexeï, their son. Your father’s uncle. He looks so very much like you, Nikolaï. It is astonishing.” Stunned, Nicolas read the dates.
Наташа
1925–1982.
Владимир
1921–1979.
Алексей
1940–1993.

He finally spoke, turning to look at her. “There is one more thing I need to know. The exact date of Alexeï Koltchine’s death in 1993.”

The answer came later, back in the gloomy registry office where they had been the day before.

Lisa Sapounova translated it for him. “Alexeï Vladimirovitch Koltchine never married. He had no children. He died in Saint Petersburg on July fifteenth, 1993.”

N
ICOLAS SITS FOR A
while in the room after Malvina’s departure. Then he stands up and shakes himself like a drowsy animal coming out of hibernation. A new energy races through him. He dials the reception desk and reaches a woman who says she is Carla. Yes, he knows Signorina Voss has taken an earlier car and has asked to be put on an earlier flight,
grazie.
He asks Carla if it is possible for him to stay another night. And can his plane ticket be canceled and another one obtained for tomorrow afternoon? He is informed he will be called back in a couple of minutes. In the meantime, Nicolas sends an e-mail to Alice Dor. He writes to tell her she must not worry. He pleads with her to believe him. He is sorry for the misunderstanding, but there is no deal with Dagmar Hunoldt. None at all. When Alice wanted to sign the contract for the new book, she seemed in such a hurry, he hadn’t dared admit he had not started to write. This is all his fault. He feels guilty; he feels terrible. He will return the advance. He will explain everything when he gets back tomorrow. They must talk. When can he meet her?

The receptionist calls him. Does he mind changing rooms? There are many new arrivals tonight, because of the party Dr. Gheza is throwing for some close friends to celebrate their wedding. He is most welcome to join the gathering, which starts at seven, on the terrace. The new room will be smaller, but with the same ocean view. Is that okay? Nicolas says of course, okay, no problem. He asks if someone can pick up his suitcase. He is told his suitcase can be packed for him by one of the housekeepers and that it will be moved to his new room on the next floor. He can go there as soon as he is ready. As for his transfer and flight the next day, everything has been taken care of and they are awaiting confirmation. Just before Carla hangs up, Nicolas says, “Can you tell me if Mrs. Dagmar Hunoldt is still here? Will she be attending the party tonight?”