The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [105]
Zev breathed a sigh of relief. Summoning the waiter, he ordered a bottle of red wine. He was happy just to sit and look at her, his dream come true. She sipped the wine slowly, listening to the music as silence fell between them again.
Missie avoided his eyes, wondering what to say. They couldn’t just go on saying nothing. She took another sip of her wine and said desperately, “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Abramski.”
“Myself?” he repeated, surprised. “Why, there’s nothing to tell.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” she said, emboldened by the wine. “For instance, are you a happy man?”
Silence fell again and he stared down at his soup. “I am happy to be here with you,” he said at last.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I meant, are you happy with your life? You see, when I was a child I thought everyone was happy, but now I’m finding out that there are really not very many truly happy people in the world. They are all fighting against something: poverty, illness, oppression, despair. Sometimes when I think of how different Azaylee’s childhood is from my own, I want to cry. And sometimes I do, at night when I am in bed.”
His dark eyes were sympathetic. The Russian music and the roar of conversation grew louder, isolating them in their own little corner by the window.
Somehow, she felt secure with him. The wine loosened her tongue and she began to talk about her childhood in England, and how her father had died in Russia, leaving her alone. “And that’s how I came to live in St. Petersburg,” she said, bringing her story abruptly to a close.
The waiter bustled by to clear their plates, bringing them a mound of golden crisp potato piroshkis, spicy sliced sausages, and a mountain of kasha with hot mushroom sauce. He refilled their glasses and called for another basket of breads.
She leaned her elbow on the table, propping her chin on her hand, and said, “I know you heard what Azaylee said about … about Sofia. I don’t know why, Zev Abramski, but I know I can trust you.” The Russianness of the restaurant, the familiar language, and the music were too much for her to bear her loneliness any longer; she had told no one her story, not even Rosa, her friend, but suddenly it all spilled out in urgent, frightened whispers. The flight through the forest with the jewels sewn in their skirts, the terrible murders, their escape to Constantinople and Sofia selling the diamonds for next to nothing. There was only the tiara left, she told him, with all the diamonds gone except the four remaining large ones. And the enormous, useless emerald. The food grew cold in front of them as she told him their fear of the Cheka and how she knew it would never stop. And how she dreamed every night about Alexei. She told him everything—except that she had been in love with Misha. “So,” she said, lifting her head and looking at him, “now you know who I am, Zev Abramski, and why I am in this position. And you are the only person in the world who does.”
She sniffed back her tears and he took out a fresh white pocket handkerchief and gave it to her. “I am proud that you have given me your confidence,” he said quietly. “I shall never repeat a word of what you said. No one shall hear of this from me, I promise on my life.”
His eyes were very gentle. “Eat,” he said gruffly, “let the good food bring some color to your pale cheeks. Enjoy.”
After that the silence between them seemed more companionable; Zev seemed content just to be in her company, and, even though he was a man of few words, she was surprisingly content in his.
He walked her home silently afterward, still keeping to the edge of the sidewalk, and when they reached her door he asked if she would meet him again the following Sunday.
Missie hesitated. She really didn’t know whether she should, but he had been so kind to her, and in an odd sort of way she felt close to him now that he knew all about her. “Six o’clock then, next Sunday, Mr. Abramski,” she agreed. She said good night quickly and hurried indoors, aware that