Well, at least he doesn’t have his paws on her.
“… it’s true,” Olga said, continuing their conversation as Chekov drew near. “Whenever Alexei was upset with Mama and Papa he used to pack up his toys and ‘move’ into my room and declare me his mother.”
“A handful, your little brother,” Dostovalov said.
“Yes, but you must understand he’s been denied so much because of his condition,” Olga said, earnestly.
“Indeed,” Chekov said, slicing coldly through their conversation. “A terrible condition. A peasant boy with hemophilia would almost certainly have died by now.”
Olga’s pretty face fell, Dostovalov’s darkened.
“That was unkind, Sergei Arkadyevich,” Dostovalov rumbled.
Chekov sighed.
He’s right, it’s wrong to flog a young girl with things that aren’t remotely her fault just because of her parents.
“It was unkind,” Chekov said, kicking the toe of his boot against the Freedom House’s stone steps. “I apologize, miss.”
Dostovalov glared at Chekov, clearly wanting him to offer a more elaborate apology, but Olga seemed mollified.
“It’s quite all right,” Olga said. “I know we’ve lived a relatively comfortable life; at least up until now. It’s thoughtless of me to complain when so many have suffered as much or worse.”
Oh, sure, make me feel like more of an ass by being gracious.
“Not in the least,” Dostovalov said, quickly. “Right, Sergei?”
“Quite right, indeed,” Chekov said with a small nod. “Your family has quite enough to be getting on with.”
Olga smiled again, though not without a hint of reserve.
“Anyway, Tatiana will be done helping Mama settle in for the night soon,” Olga said, with a regretful look at Dostovalov. “I should probably go back inside so she doesn’t fret when she gets back to our room.”
“Good night, Olga Nikolaevna,” Dostovalov said.
Olga smiled demurely.
“Good night… Antosenka. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chekov waited until the door shut behind the girl before he rounded on his friend with an incredulous look.
“‘Antosenka’?” Chekov said. “Since when are you Antosenka?”
Dostovalov grinned and shrugged.
“Just because she’s the tsar’s daughter doesn’t mean she can’t flirt a little,” Dostovalov said. “Not everyone wants to be an ascetic like you.”
“Just keep your hands off of her, all right?” Chekov said. “In the current climate fraternizing with the tsar’s daughter could get you shot by either side.”
“You think the monarchists can pull it together long enough to be the ‘other side’?” Dostovalov said.
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Chekov said. Both men were wise enough not to ask aloud the open question of what side they would be on should a force of Tsarist Loyalists come knocking on the Tobolsk Governor’s Mansion’s front gate. “General Dutov and his Cossacks keep making noise.”
Besides, we both know we’re on the side least likely to get us killed—whichever that ends up being.
“In the meantime we’ve got plenty of problems already,” Chekov said. “No trying to sleep with the tsar’s daughter.”
Chekov related to his friend Yermilov’s challenge, his own answer to it. Dostovalov chuckled and shook his head once Chekov was done speaking.
“What’s so funny?” Chekov said, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
“You are,” Dostovalov said. “You’re mad at me for flirting when you nearly murdered another soldier twenty minutes ago. Yes, word travels that fast around here. My friend, I don’t know how you form your priorities, but you may need to reexamine what worries you and what doesn’t.”
“No one is going to shoot me for beating up a bully in the mess,” Chekov said.
“Except maybe the bully and his friends,” Dostovalov said. “New order, new rules; sometimes it seems like no rules.”
“Only one rule,” Chekov said. “It’s just us, Anton. We gotta live. If others want to help, great, and we’ll help them if we can, but at the end of the day it’s you and me.”
Dostovalov’s cheerful face grew somber as he considered Chekov’s words; after a moment he nodded.
“Da, you and me, Comrade.”
Every third night they were off and, since their sleep cycle was well and truly screwed in any event, Chekov and Dostovalov usually stayed out late enjoying the limited pleasures of Tobolsk. As soldiers in the employ of the Provisional Government, they were able to get food and liquor in exchange for their paper currency without having to barter.
Their fourth night off, they had dinner in a small restaurant, really a couple of block tables in the parlor of the butcher’s house. Rationing precluded the existence of normal restaurants. The cozy wood-floored room was sparsely furnished and lit by two flickering oil lamps. The food was good, God alone knew where the butcher was getting the meat and produce to make decent meals.
As far as Tobolsk’s night life went, Chekov thought the butcher’s little eatery about the best option available. Every other place was crammed with Red Guards or recently discharged soldiers or prison guards from the local penitentiary, all throwing their weight around, waiting for an excuse to brawl.
There were a couple of local brothels, but Chekov didn’t have much interest. He wasn’t, despite his friend’s jests, saving himself for marriage. He’d paid a whore for her services once but found the process awkward and sad and had a hard time even finishing. It had contented him from that point forward to handle pent up sexual frustration himself, in private.
Chekov noticed, though, that Dostovalov appeared to have lost his usually healthy appetite for whoring. His big friend only snorted when Chekov asked him about his apparent lack of interest.
“Have you seen the poor creatures working in the brothel here?” He said, then held up a hand in negation of his own questions. “No, of course you haven’t, you’re still vying for sainthood. Well, trust me, there’s nothing there you want to stick your prick in.”
Chekov eyed his friend suspiciously.
“Since when is there anything you don’t want to stick your prick in?”
Dostovalov shrugged eloquently and continued to shovel thick orange solyanka soup into his mouth.
“You’re not avoiding the local talent because you’re pining over the grand duchess, are you?” Chekov said.
“Well, technically, she’s not a grand duchess anymore,” Dostovalov said, leaning back in his chair and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But I don’t pine for anyone.”
“Good to hear,” Chekov said before taking another spoonful from his bowl. “We have enough problems.”
“Right,” Dostovalov said. “What are we going to do with this mess?”
Chekov chewed up and swallowed a spoonful of pickle, sausage, and broth, then glanced around the room. The butcher and his wife busied themselves in the kitchen shifting iron pans around their wood-burning stove, well out of earshot. No other patrons filled the tables this late.
“It looks like the civil war is inevitable,” Chekov said. “In which case, we don’t have a lot of great options. I suppose we could desert.”
“Yaroslavl is a long way from here,” Dostovalov said. “And my hometown is even farther.”