Silence was too profound not to notice and I lingered in the same position, fearful of shattering it with a careless movement, with a clinking of an empty tea glass resting on the bench by my hand, ready to be sent tumbling onto the floor and splintering into shards… the image of the breaking glass was so clear in my mind, I jerked my hand away from it, to prevent it from coming true.
“Menshov,” someone said behind me. “You’re awake?”
“Yes.” Silence ruined, I sat up and rubbed my eyes with my fists. The carriage was empty, save for Cornet Volzhenko stretched on the bench behind mine, reading a volume of Pushkin’s newest poems (I disliked his newer ones, finding that the poet was growing sentimental in his advancing years.) “Where is everyone?”
“Novonikolaevsk,” the cornet replied. “Heart of Siberia. Everyone’s probably buying vodka and food off the local Buryats. The rotmistr told me to stay here, keep an eye on you.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then, “Sorry.”
“What are you sorry for? It’s no bother. I’d rather stay here, in the warmth and quiet. They’ll bring us something to eat tonight, after they’re done painting the town.” He thought a bit, looking at me as if wanting to ask something.
“I have been ill,” I said. “When the rotmistr gets back, will you ask him to speak to me? I need to find out what happened in Yekaterinburg… where my friend Mr. Bartram went.”
He nodded. “Don’t you remember, Menshov? You sprained your ankle and decided to come along with us to Krasnoyarsk. You collapsed as soon as you sat down, and there was no waking you or talking to you.”
I shrugged. “I don’t mind. It is going to sound strange, but with the fever I am not sure I made the decision myself.”
“God has a way of guiding us sometimes,” he said with a serious, deep conviction.
I felt disinclined to speculate about God’s designs, so I changed the subject. “Is there somewhere to send a letter from?”
Cornet Volzhenko shrugged. “I reckon there is a post office nearby. Novonikolaevsk is a new city still, but it has everything a city needs, although God help me if I know why the emperor decided to build it here. Then again, he named it after his brother, suitably enough.”
I couldn’t help but snicker. “You don’t care for Prince Nicholas?”
The cornet shook his head. “My father was at the Senate Square in 1825,” he said. “And he always told me it wasn’t so much that they were keen on Constantine, but rather that they were terrified of Nicholas becoming tsar-emperor. Can you even imagine such a thing?” His dark eyes opened wide and rounded in exaggerated fear. “At least now, all he has is this city named after him, frozen in winter and a stinking, mosquito-filled swamp in the summer.”
“And the Nikolashki,” I added. “His secret police — he has those too.”
“And they are not too keen on the Chinamen. Is that why you’re going to China? Spying for the emperor?”
I shook my head, relieved I did not have to lie in this instant. “Nothing like that, I assure you.”
“But you have a reason to go there, and a reason why you’re upset the Englishman is not here, with you. And why all the other English are chasing you, as they were in Moscow. And now your friend is nowhere to be found.”
“There are reasons for everything,” I said. “But we are neither spies nor traitors.”
He pinched his upper lip, the vegetation decorating it as wispy and scarce as mine, pulled on it as if testing its resilience. “I believe you, Menshov. The rotmistr seems to have taken a shine to you, and that’s good enough for me. He’s like a father to Petrovsky and myself, yeah? So he likes you — I like you, I even play nanny to you if he tells me to. But understand this: if you betray his trust, you’re dead. Boom!” His fist smashed against the wooden bench. “Nothing left but a wet spot, like a bug.”
“I see what you mean,” I said, and eyed his young but knobby fist respectfully. “Don’t worry, I hold the rotmistr in high esteem and am indebted to him for his kindnesses.”
“Damn right.” Volzhenko nodded and grinned, visibly relieved to get his worries off his chest. “Now that you’re awake, want to test that foot of yours?”
My right ankle was indeed much better; it only produced a dull ache when I put my weight on it. I was able to sew the upper of my boot back together with some string and an awl Aunt Eugenia had thoughtfully packed in my satchel — which I still held against my bosom. I wondered if the hussars had noticed how desperately I had continued to clutch it, and whether they thought there was something exceedingly valuable in it other than a couple of clean shirts and a letter written in Chinese on the back of a theatrical bill.
Chapter 13
If there were anything I could wish for besides finding Jack or returning home, it would be some clothing designed for the Siberian winter. The moment I stepped foot outside, I realized that even though I had been cold before in my life, I had never been cold like this. Twiggy icy fingers grabbed my very heart and froze even the insides of my bones; my teeth chattered and I shook as if in St. Vitus’ dance.
“You need something more than your uniform,” Volzhenko, who stood on the platform next to me, draped in a thick shearling coat, said. “Pelisses are suitable for winter most places, but here… ”
“Where… can I get a coat?” I stammered between my teeth that did a little tap-dance of their own.
“There’s a furrier near the station,” Volzhenko said. “Come, you’ll feel better once we’re walking.”
He was right to an extent — walking indeed sent blood coursing through my legs but only to remind me bitterly that I had toes, albeit numb, which would be ripe for frostbite. Not to mention the low fever that made my forehead burn, and the disparity made the rest of me even colder, if that was at all possible.
I did not ask where the rotmistr and the rest of their regiment went. I assumed they had better things to do than pass an entire day on the train, and I did not blame them.
It was indeed a new city, although the appellation of city was rather generous, considering its wide, empty streets lined with a few sparse, single-storied cottages. The dwellings themselves seemed aware of their own insufficient number and volume to create a proper street. The trees around the houses were cleared in fits and starts. While some blocks had a white and deserted appearance, others looked as if they were about to be swallowed by a dark-green wall of spruces and furs, sneaking up from behind. There were a few stores that appeared to be closed, and we passed a tavern that exhaled clouds of smoke from its chimney, and clouds of steam from its open door along with gusts of great laughter.
“We can stop by there if you want,” I said to Volzhenko as I noticed his long, forlorn look toward the tavern’s door.
“As soon as we get you dressed,” he agreed. “Or the rotmistr will kill me — he thinks you’ve fallen ill because of the cold and the wind.”
“And stop by the post office,” I reminded. I had already written a worried letter for Jack, and copied it several times to send to every city between Novonikolaevsk and Yekaterinburg.
“Of course. It’s by the furrier’s store.” Volzhenko pointed toward an especially dense stand of trees, before which the street stopped rather abruptly, like a small child who had run against a glass door and now stood disoriented and puzzled, ready to cry. “Both right over here.”
The furrier’s shop pressed against the tall skinny trunks of three black spruces, as if too shy to step away from their protective skirts. Trubkozub and Son announced the hand-painted sign. I studied it, momentarily forgetting the cold, puzzling at such an exotic name in such harsh environs — mysterious, like its namesake creature. It was rather strange to find a shop in Siberia owned by a man named after an African mammal; I tried to remember its name in English, so I could tell Jack later. Aardvark. A furrier shop named Aardvark and Son. I snorted and entered, followed closely by puzzled-looking Volzhenko.