Berta came down the last few steps and followed the circular drive around to the side of the house where the snow was deeper and the going more difficult. The ground had been trampled by a jumble of footprints and sledge tracks left by the vendors who had been coming and going all morning. She took advantage of the tracks and walked in them, following them around to the back of the house. While she was making her way she idly examined the confusion of footprints at her feet and out of them identified her son’s small boot print. She could tell they were his by the size, the short stride, and the shallow depression. She tracked them down the drive and was surprised to find that they didn’t lead her to the sledding hill but to the pantry door. She had a knack for picking out her children in a crowd—a glimpse of hair, a brown arm, the back of a head. She could find her children anywhere.
Vera, the maid, and Zina, the cook’s helper, were busy polishing silver at the harvest table and jumped to their feet when she walked through the door. The delivery boy stood in deference, whipped off his cap, and kept his eyes on his shoes.
“No, please, it’s all right. I’ve just come to look at the sculpture.”
Zina said, “It’s over here, Madame. Here, I’ll get it for you.” Zina had a wide, pleasant face with a broad nose and a space between her two front teeth. She often suppressed a smile, pretending to be shy and to know her place despite the spark of mischief in her eyes. Samuil said she occasionally stole away to meet a trolley conductor under the big elms over by the bench. When she would come back and tell Vera all about it, he’d be hiding nearby and listening to every word, which he would then sell to Galya for more time with his horse.
The ice sculpture was sitting at the other end of table wrapped in burlap to keep it cold. Zina untied the sacks and they fell away, revealing an arch of wheat shafts over a nest of birds. “Ah… look at that. So pretty,” Zina said, examining it. “Clever too. And them is ducks, I suppose. Little ducks in a nest.”
Berta had ordered robins, but she didn’t mind the ducks. She told the delivery boy that she would keep it and that his employers could bill her. He nodded but didn’t leave right away. Instead he glanced at the hot cup of tea that he would soon be leaving.
“Go ahead. Finish it. Nobody minds.”
He looked up at her and nodded gratefully. And for a moment nobody moved while they waited for her to leave.
“Yes, well, that’s it then.” She looked up and addressed the room. “Samuil… time to go.”
The others gaped at her. “He is not here, Madame,” Zina said.
And then to the shelves that lined the walls, to the dry goods, canned goods, cooking utensils, and the great wheel of cheese that sat up high on the top shelf, she called out again, “Come along, Samuil. I mean it.”
“If we see him, we will tell him you are looking for him.”
“That’s just it, you’ll never know he’s here.” This time she tried a different tack. “If you come out right now, I’ll take you to the concert next week.”
Silence… and then a muffled voice from the top shelf, from behind the cheese: “What are they playing?”
Zina looked at Vera in alarm. She was probably wondering what the boy had heard and more important what he would repeat.
Berta thought. “I don’t remember.”
“Then how am I supposed to know if I want to come?”
“Samuil…” she said wearily.
He peeked out from behind the wheel and then reluctantly climbed out of his corner and down the shelves, jumping the last few feet to the ground.
THURSDAYS RAN smoothly for the most part, but there were always problems along the way. Sometimes the wrong flowers would arrive, once the poultry man ran out of game hens, and another time there were no quinces in Cherkast. Any number of things could go wrong on Thursday. But nothing as catastrophic as the phone call she received that afternoon.
“I’m so sorry to be calling this late,” croaked the pianist from the other end of line. “I thought I could play for your guests, but the doctor says I’m not to go out. I have a horrible cold as you can hear. I hope you will forgive me.”
Berta struggled to hide her annoyance. “Of course,” she muttered. “Don’t give it another thought.” She wanted to say something about canceling this late, but the girl was a rising star in the musical circle and she couldn’t afford to alienate her. So she forced herself to sound solicitous, wished the girl well, and even offered a few home remedies that included teas made of mullein flower and yarrow to draw out the fever.
During the next hour, Berta telephoned every pianist, violinist, and cellist she knew in Cherkast. There weren’t many. While she pleaded and cajoled, flattered and bribed, she scratched a widening chip of paint off the Chinese lacquer table. It was unusual to have a telephone alcove this elaborate in the Berezina. The houses in the neighborhood were large but nothing compared to the Moscow mansions. The Alshonsky house was the exception. It wasn’t larger than the rest, but it had been furnished at great expense. The house had once been owned by a fish merchant who had lost his business due to bad luck and the high cost of debt. Hershel often reminded Berta that it was about to do the same to them, especially if she didn’t stop throwing money away on furniture and draperies.
By the end of her fruitless search, she had chipped away a whole corner of the table. She was cleaning the paint out from under her fingernail when Galya happened to walk by carrying a tray for the children. Berta looked up and brightened with a sudden idea. “Galya… who is that famous medium you’re always talking about?’
“Marfa Gorbunova?”
“Yes. Is she good?”
“Very good, Madame. The best in all the Russias.”
“How do I get a hold of her?”
Galya put down the tray on the hall table. Her lips puckered in thought. “I know a woman who knows her. I could go around and see if she knows where to find her.”
“Good, could you do that for me?”
“Of course.”
“I mean right now. I’m in a bind. I need her to come here tonight.”
Galya stiffened. “You want her to come to your party?”
“What’s wrong that? I think she’ll be very entertaining.”
Galya pulled herself up and cradled her breasts in her arms. “I am very sorry, Madame, but Marfa Gorbunova does not entertain guests. She does not do party tricks. She communicates with those who have passed over to the other side.”
“Don’t worry. She’ll be treated with the utmost respect. Now go ask your friend where to find her. We don’t have much time.”
Galya hesitated. “She might not know.”
“Well, ask her anyway. And when you find this woman tell her that if she comes to us we’ll be very grateful. Tell her we understand money is of little value to a spiritualist of her standing, but still there will be a generous compensation.”
Galya shook her head doubtfully, picked up the tray, and started up the stairs. She groaned occasionally and stopped frequently to catch her breath. Berta wanted to hurry her along, but knew that if she said anything, there would be a long-winded complaint about aching legs and a weak back, and that would take much longer than if she didn’t say anything at all.