It was minus 4 degrees Centigrade. It felt that cold in Fahrenheit.
LeClerc spoke softly, rapidly muttering a prayer that no one could hear. Words on the icy air, brief and appropriate, but impersonal. The knot of people shuffled uncomfortably. Alex counted them. There were eleven-a strange number, but an even dozen including the pastor.
The snow thickened. Then the service was over.
Alex had ordered a bouquet of roses for Federov’s send-off. She took one and laid it on the urn. The flower was frozen but it didn’t matter. Out of decency, Rizzo added a second. Other attendees pitched in, also. No one spoke to anyone else.
Alex and Rizzo turned and started to retrace their path through the cemetery to the exit. They had gone several meters when Alex heard a voice from behind her, a man chasing after her and calling out.
“Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?”
Alex turned and saw LeClerc hastily pursuing her.
She stopped. So did Rizzo, who remained close. LeClerc arrived slightly breathless and reached to an inside jacket pocket.
“Vous parlez français, madame?” he asked. “On peut parler français?” he asked.
She answered, yes, of course. Bien sûr, she spoke French.
LeClerc was a little breathless and a little befuddled. He searched several pockets and then found what he was looking for.
“There were some special arrangements today,” the pastor explained in French. “I was asked, or I should say, the deceased requested before his death, that if you arrived here on this day, I should give you something.”
“How did you know who I was?” Alex asked.
“He described you.”
“And what if I hadn’t been here?” she asked.
“Well, I asked that too,” the minister said. “But the deceased was insistent. He said he knew you would come.”
“Then what is it that you have for me?” Alex asked.
“I was asked to give you this.”
He handed her an envelope. It was addressed simply, in Federov’s shaky handwriting from his final days, perhaps even the final one.
On the front of it was simply written ALEX LADUCA.
She felt the envelope. It was too thin to be the ring again; she could tell even with a gloved hand. “My condolences in any event,” said the young priest.
“Thank you,” she said.
LeClerc gave her and Rizzo a nod, then turned. He trotted back toward the gravesite where workers from the graveyard were readying to lower the funeral urn to its final resting place.
Alex glanced to Rizzo. “Shall I open it now?” she asked.
“Why not?” Rizzo shrugged. “If it explodes, then he’ll get us both.”
“Very funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
They stood in the cold graveyard. Alex pulled off her gloves. She tore away one end of the envelope. She pulled out a letter-sized sheet of paper which also bore Federov’s handwriting, but before she could manage to read it, a small golden chain with an attached pendant slid into her hand.
It landed perfectly in her palm. It had a strange warmth to it, having been carried within LeClerc’s clothing.
Alex gasped.
There, in the open day, under a grayish white sky, in the center of her palm with snow falling on it, was the small golden cross that her father had given her years ago. It was the cross that she had worn so many years, up until the horrible day of the RPR assault in Kiev. It was the cross that she had somehow lost that day. Now, almost inexplicably, it had come back to her.
She opened the brief note and read it.
My Dearest Alejandra,
Following the horrible events in Kiev, after the snow of February had melted, I walked the ground where the assault had transpired. By the hand of fate, or God, or of some force that I do not understand, I looked down and between my boots saw a faint glitter in the mud.
I reached down and retrieved this, which I recognized immediately, not just for the woman it belonged to, but for what it meant to you. I held it with me for some time. I held it to remind me of what I had done, how I had hurt you and so many others so much, and because I wished to have something of yours. But over the last months, I wished to return it to you. I prayed for a proper time and in God’s strange way that time arrived. So that time is here and I return it to you today. May my last act in this world be one of Christian kindness to someone I cared for and may I be judged by my Maker accordingly.
Affectionately,
Y.F.
Her eyes rose to Rizzo’s. She showed him the note and turned away as he read it.
“Sentimental old bird, wasn’t he?” Rizzo said. “Typical Russian. Stabbing you in the back one minute, weeping into his samovar to gypsy violins the next.”
“Like anyone else,” she said, “I suppose he was trying to make his peace. With himself, with the world. With God.”
“Sounds like you’re sympathetic,” Rizzo said. He folded the letter and slid it into the pocket of her coat. “Do with it as you wish,” he said.
She took a moment. She studied the cross and chain in her hand.
“Here,” Rizzo said.
He reached to it and took it from her. He loosened the scarf around her neck. With two hands he reached around her and put the chain in place. He gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead, as a brother might. Then he stepped back.
“Perfect,” he said. “It’s back where it belongs.”
She glanced at her watch.
“Let’s get to the airport,” she said. “I’m finished here.”
Several hours later, Alex sipped from a glass of whiskey that was on the folded-down tray before her. She sat in the seclusion of a business-class window seat aboard a Swiss International Airlines Airbus. Midway into her eight-hour flight from Geneva to New York, there was a consistency to the drone of the aircraft’s engines that was both unreal and therapeutic.
Sometimes it seemed as if all of the humanity had been sucked out of her over the last year. This was a crazy way that she was going through life, she knew, and yet she didn’t know how to throw the switch to reverse courses, to go in any other direction.
She searched herself and the sum of all knowledge she had learned to date. She still had her faith, but she knew she sometimes wrestled with it. She knew she probably always would. Like a cathedral, it was never complete, never finished.
She searched the literature she had read over a lifetime. She didn’t know whether it was because Russians were on her mind, but here in this aircraft the metaphor that she kept returning to was that of a train.
Long ago she had read Anna Karenina, the same as Federov had done on his deathbed. The story had started with children playing with a toy train and then ended with a train wreck and a conversion to deep Christian spirituality.