Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [358]
Young Arina, with her rather plump young body and her reddish-gold hair: Misha thought she was beautiful. Her blue eyes seemed to light up with excitement whenever she saw his Uncle Sergei or Karpenko. She was a little shy of Sergei though, whereas she would let the dark Ukrainian put his arm around her.
Uncle Sergei was a marvel: there was no doubt. Everyone loved him. He would talk with clever Uncle Ilya by the hour, often in French. And he was always happy to come and sit at old Arina’s feet where he would declare: ‘I’ve read all Krylov’s folk tales, but even he never told them like you, my dear.’ Misha was puzzled therefore when once he saw his father glaring at Sergei when the latter’s back was turned, and he asked his Aunt Olga: ‘Doesn’t Papa love Uncle Sergei?’
‘Of course he does,’ she told him. And when, rather shyly, he asked his father, Alexis said the same thing.
Often, when they all went for a stroll in the alley of birch trees behind the house, he would notice that Karpenko tried to walk beside Aunt Olga. Once he heard her say to Uncle Sergei: ‘Your friend’s in love with me,’ and then give a ringing laugh. Could Karpenko be in love with two women? the little boy wondered. And then there was Pinegin, with his pipe, his pale blue eyes and his white tunic. He was always there, quietly watching, giving a faint smile from time to time. Yet there was something about him, something hard and reserved, that made the boy afraid. Once, when they were all sitting on the verandah, Misha asked him: ‘Are you a soldier?’ And being told yes: ‘And soldiers kill people?’ Pinegin puffed on his pipe, then nodded. ‘He kills people,’ the little fellow announced to all the grown-ups, and everyone burst out laughing. Since he couldn’t see the joke, Misha gave up trying to understand things that afternoon, and ran off to play with Timofei Romanov.
To Olga’s relief, over a week passed without incident. Everyone knew that Sergei and Alexis must be kept apart. Everyone was careful.
She had forgotten how amusing he was. He seemed to know everyone and to have seen everything. He would tell her scandalous stories of the scrapes, duels and illicit affairs of everyone in Moscow and St Petersburg, but always with such unbelievable detail that she laughed so hard she had to hang on to his arm.
It was one evening, after listening to his stories, that she asked him curiously about his own love life. Had there been many women? she wondered. Whatever answer she expected, it was not what came next. Leading her to a quiet corner, he took a little book from his pocket and handed it to her. There were columns of names on each page, each with a little comment. ‘My conquests,’ he explained. ‘The ones on the left are platonic friendships. The ones on the right, I’ve had.’
It was outrageous. Nor could she credit the names. ‘The virtuous Maria Ivanovna slept with you, you rascal?’ ‘I swear.’ He gave her a graphic account. And she burst into peals of laughter.
‘I don’t know what we shall do with you, Seriozha,’ she said.
As the days passed, only two things troubled Sergei Bobrov. Neither could be mentioned to anybody.
The first was a tiny incident that had taken place the day before he left Moscow. He had been walking along the street with his manservant – a young serf from the Russka estate – when it had happened: and he had been so surprised that, before he could think, he had let out several incautious words – words that could be very serious for others. He had been unsure how much the young serf had taken in, but immediately afterwards he had sternly said: ‘Whatever you think I just said, you heard nothing – unless you want a thrashing. You understand?’ Then he had given him a few roubles.
He had kept an eye on the fellow since they got to Russka and, as far as he could tell, all was well. After a week, he put it out of his mind.
But the other matter could not be so easily dismissed. It was in his thoughts every day; and for once, he did not know what to do.
It seemed a harmless idea. Even Alexis agreed