Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [507]
It was mid-afternoon when he chanced to find himself near the Suvorin mansion just as the procession was about to pass by. He had known that Karpenko was going there that day, and thinking that his friend might still be there, he went in. And so it was that he came upon Nadezhda, alone, in the small salon upstairs.
She was standing by the window, staring out at the street. Her face was rather pale; she seemed unusually quiet; together they crossed themselves, along with the crowds in the street below, as the priests with their icons led the long procession past.
‘It’s strange,’ she said at last. ‘The last war, when we fought the Japanese, never seemed very real to me. I suppose I was just very young.’
‘It was far away, too.’
‘Did people feel like this – so patriotic – before that one?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Holy Russia.’ It seemed she did not need to elaborate. She just left the two words hanging. ‘It’s hard to realize,’ she went on, ‘that people one knows are going to die.’
Dimitri nodded. His own limp meant that he could never pass the medical for any kind of military service. It did not make him feel guilty. It was just a fact. ‘Who do we know who’s fighting?’ he asked.
‘There’s Alexander Nicolaevich,’ she replied.
‘That’s true.’ He paused. ‘By the way, have you seen Karpenko?’
‘Yes. He left.’
‘Any idea for where?’
‘No.’ She was silent for a short time. Then she remarked: ‘It’s a commitment, isn’t it? I mean, you say: “I’m ready to lay down my life” and perhaps you do lose it.’
‘I suppose so. Yes.’
She continued staring at the long procession, mostly of simple peasants in their shirts, for a while before remarking: ‘I’m rather tired, Dimitri. Come and see me again soon.’
A few moments later, outside, it was only a whim that decided Dimitri to see if Karpenko might have looked in at his Uncle Vladimir’s new house. As he made his way towards it, the side-streets were almost deserted. Apart from the occasional pealing of patriotic church bells, the afternoon seemed to have withdrawn itself into silence. There was no breeze. He noticed that a fine dust had settled on everything, even the leaves of the trees he passed.
When he reached the Art Nouveau house, standing on its large corner plot, it too seemed dusty and deserted, as though the plasterers had just finished working on the house and left it empty. He went up the steps to the entrance and pulled the bell.
He heard it ring but there was no reply. He waited. Vladimir only kept a skeleton staff there, but it was odd for there to be nobody in the place. ‘Asleep, I suppose,’ he muttered and pulled the bell again, though without conviction. Still nothing. Probably gone to watch the procession, he decided with a shrug. I may as well go.
It was an idle impulse to turn the handle of the heavy door. He certainly didn’t expect anything to happen. Yet to his great surprise, it opened. They had forgotten to lock it. And since he was hot, and had nothing better to do, he stepped inside.
How delightfully cool it was. The high hall with its creamy white staircase was still. Blue and green light filtered softly through the high windows. It made him think of being a fish in some beautiful grotto. The main drawing room, the dining room and the library all gave off the hall. Quietly he went from one to another to see if he could find anyone, but there was nobody.
Should he go? He might as well. But before doing so, he thought he might as well look upstairs. Even if there was no one about, it was rather pleasant exploring the house like this, by himself.
Although he was familiar with all the rooms on the main floor, Dimitri had only once been to the upper floor of the house; he knew there was a sitting room and a study up there, but he could not remember where they were. Having reached the top of the curving stairs he went slowly round the landing, opening one