He was hoping for an empty compartment but found it crowded with sleeping army officers, their greatcoats thrown over their bodies for warmth, brass buttons gleaming in the subdued light, braids, epaulettes, and knee-high boots of fine leather. A few stirred when he walked in but soon closed their eyes and went back to sleep. He hoisted the suitcases up onto the overhead shelf and settled down in the last empty seat for a watchful night. But he was too exhausted to stay awake and soon closed his eyes. After the train fell into the easy rhythm of the tracks, he drifted off.
It was a gray dawn when he stepped out of the railway station in Cherkast. The outlines of the buildings, trees, and sledges were slowly coming into focus, their edges hardening against a lightening sky. He waved over a sled and put his cases in first and then climbed in beside them.
“Number 237 Lubiansky Street,” he told the cabman. He was telling him how to get there when the driver interrupted him. “Alshonsky. I know where it is. Go up there all the time. You are an early one. Never had one this early before.”
He flicked the reins and the little horse trudged on through the snowy streets. Hershel sat back and closed his eyes. There was something satisfying about living in a house that the cabmen knew, a house that wasn’t just a structure, but a landmark.
Occasionally, he’d look back at the journey from Leski to the top of the Berezina and marvel. He knew luck had a lot to do with it and never fooled himself into believing that it was all due to his talent alone. As the sled took him past the warehouse district and up to the nicer shops, past the comfortable homes to the larger houses in the Berezina, he managed to forget about all the money he owed, the debt that was woven into the upholstery of every chair, rug, and drape. Instead he remembered his first job with the consortium, unloading sacks of wheat from the barges. From the barges to the Berezina, what would his father have said? He would’ve cautioned his son to look for the tip of the blue tail, the gleaming teeth, and the claw. He’ll be under there, he would have said. The blue man always is.
The sled pulled into the drive and deposited him at the door. He paid the cabman and carried his suitcases up the front steps to the carved oak door and inserted his key into the lock. When he walked into the foyer he heard snoring coming from the parlor. He followed it and found Yuvelir sleeping on the sofa with a blanket tossed over his shoulders, his head buried in a pillow, his blond hair streaming over his face. Hershel thought about waking him and sending him home but decided against it. It would have meant a conversation, and besides, he was used to finding a stray guest sleeping in his parlor after a party.
He carried the cases upstairs and stopped off in his office. He fumbled in the dark until he found the desk lamp and switched it on. The lamp only lit a small portion of the room, leaving the rest in semidarkness. There was a staircase to one side of the desk that was decorated with carved devils and demons from the Faust legend. The small puddle of light elongated their features and cast eerie shadows on the wall behind them. Hershel went to his desk and pulled out the top drawer. He emptied out the few contents and turned the drawer over. Taped to the underside was a small key. He took the key and went into a closet full of winter coats, left over from past seasons. He moved them aside, revealing a small door near the baseboard. He used the key to unlock it and pushed it open. Then he went back to retrieve the suitcase and quietly unloaded the revolvers and the newspapers into the hidden cupboard. Once the case was empty, he closed the little door, locked it, and returned the key to the underside of the drawer and slid it back into place. Then he turned off the light and walked down the hall to Berta’s bedroom.
They called it her room even though he always slept there, except when he came in late and didn’t want her to know. It was a comfortable room filled with feminine things that he found endearing: several wardrobes stuffed with dresses and shoes, a dressing table laid out with silver brushes, combs, and a silver bowl filled with hairpins, and buttons, broken chains, and objects he couldn’t name. There was a Chinese screen in the corner that she had bought at auction for a ridiculous sum and a large porcelain vase filled with peacock feathers that made him sneeze. The fire in the porcelain stove was fresh as was the fire in the fireplace. He pulled off his boots without the help of Petr and set them down on the floor. Then he pulled his shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it.
“What happened to you,” she asked without opening her eyes.
“Didn’t you get my telegram?” He dropped his pants and stepped out of them.
“I thought you said you’d be home for my party.”
He came over to the bed and lay down beside her. “Sorry, mishka. I wanted to come. I really did.”
“Sometimes I think you don’t like my parties.” She reached out a hand and drew him closer. He put his head on her breast and could hear her heart beating.
“And how am I supposed to answer that? If I tell you the truth, you’ll be angry with me, and if I do not, you’ll accuse me of lying.”
He let his fingertips trail down her sternum between her breasts and over her belly, moving down to the cleft between her legs. His fingers were in no hurry.
“So you couldn’t lie in a believable way?” she said, pushing him away and pulling the sheet up over her body.
“I like the idea of your parties.” He slowly pulled the sheet back down again. This time he kissed her breasts, brushing her nipples with his lips the way she liked, teasing her with the conversation.
“Well, you would’ve liked this one.”
“Why?”
She sucked in her breath. “There was a séance.”
He stopped what he was doing and looked up at her. “A séance?”
“No, excuse me, a communion.”
“With ghosts and mist and tambourines?”
“No tambourines. I think there was mist. It was all very dramatic. Madame Gorbunova,” she breathed.
He slid down between her legs and parted her thighs. He was home in his den now, safe from the world, hidden deep underground. Her scent welcomed him, sweet and loamy with a hint of perfumed powder. “Who’s Madame Gorbunova?”
She sucked in her breath. “Galya’s medium. The one she always goes on about.”
He looked up at her and burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Now, that, I would’ve liked to have seen.”
“I know. You would’ve been amazed.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in that kind of thing.”
“You should’ve seen it. It would’ve made a believer out of you.”
“I doubt it. They use all kinds of tricks, you know.”
“I don’t think so. Not this time. It looked too real.”
He shook his head and looked at her with affection. “Mishka…”
“What?”
“I missed you.”
She gave him a little laugh, scrunched down under the covers, and took his penis in her hand. When she put it into her mouth, words left him; syntax became meaningless; the world began to fade. She stretched her body over his belly and chest and sat up over his pelvis, guiding him in. Slowly, methodically, she began to rotate her hips, leaning forward until her nipples just brushed his lips. Her eyes remained half open and glittering in the firelight.
Hershel was a lucky man. He was in love with his wife. Other men had mistresses and dalliances of all kinds, but he never did. He still liked having sex with her. She thrilled him. The events in his life were often so chaotic and uncertain that he needed something he could count on, a place to come home to, and Berta provided him with that. Yet, she, herself, wasn’t predictable. He knew her to be capricious, moody, and even trivial at times. She could be exasperating and still he adored her. He couldn’t help it. Their relationship was one of his many contradictions. He needed certitude, a quiet routine, possession, and belonging, but he also loved a challenge. And Berta was all of that.