Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [385]
Slowly he turned and began to stroll down the alley again, Misha at his side.
‘I certainly have no quarrel with you, Mikhail Alexeevich,’ he remarked at last. ‘And you have spoken wisely. I will not say whether or not there has been a misunderstanding: but I believe that you should no longer feel any concern about the matter. Please put your mind at rest.’
And taking this for an assurance, Misha was satisfied.
It was therefore with stupefaction, on rising early the following morning, that he saw Pinegin quietly come out of Nadia’s room.
An hour later, he challenged him.
‘I’m afraid I cannot accept your challenge.’
Misha stared at him.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I refuse to fight you,’ Pinegin told him calmly.
‘Do you deny sleeping with my Uncle’s wife, in this very house?’
‘No.’
‘May I ask why you refuse my challenge?’
‘I do not wish to fight you.’
Misha was completely at a loss.
‘Then I must call you a coward.’
Pinegin bowed.
‘For that, Mikhail Alexeevich, I will fight you.’ He paused. ‘Are you content to fight at a time of my choosing?’
‘As you wish. The sooner the better.’
‘I will let you know when I am ready. Next year perhaps. But I promise you, we shall fight.’ And with that he walked away, leaving Misha completely mystified.
Now, he thought, what the devil do I do?
At ten o’clock that morning, a small event took place at Bobrovo that went almost unnoticed.
Ilya Bobrov came slowly downstairs, crammed a large, wide-brimmed hat on his head, took a stout walking stick and left the house without a word to anyone. A short time later, the villagers were surprised to see his cumbersome figure wheezing along, his face red with the unwonted exertion but set into a look of the grimmest determination. Nobody had ever seen him go walking like this before. Once through the village, he took the lane that led through the woods towards the monastery. Several times, as he went along, he muttered nervously.
No one had taken much notice of Ilya recently. If he had seemed to be more abstracted than usual, if there had sometimes been a hint of desperation in his manner, Tatiana had put it down to hard work and thought nothing of it. She was quite unaware, therefore, that after all his months of labour at this great project, Ilya had reached a point of absolute crisis and near breakdown. He had been up all the previous night; and had anyone met him as he walked through the woods, they would have noticed that his eyes, which usually gazed out so placidly upon the world, were fixed ahead, staring wildly as though the sight of only one object in the universe could satisfy them. He looked like a haggard pilgrim in search of the grail.
Which in a way he was.
It was at noon that day, when Tatiana had gone over to Russka, taking Pinegin with her, that Misha, alone with his thoughts in the quiet house, was suddenly disturbed by a clatter at the door and the sound of laughing voices.
It was Sergei, back from the Ukraine. And he had brought his friend Karpenko with him.
He bounced into the hall, looking sunburned, rested, full of life and good humour. Encountering Misha in the hall, he gave a cry of joy and embraced him. ‘Look at this,’ he called to Karpenko. ‘See what has become of little Misha the bear!’
In front of Misha now stood a very different man from the nervous youth who had once gazed adoringly at Olga. Karpenko was a charming man at the end of his thirties with a gleaming black beard, wonderful, sensitive eyes, and a reputation of huge success with women – ‘Who always seem to stay his friends, whenever he dumps them,’ Sergei would say with puzzled admiration. Karpenko had reason to be contented.