Chapter 45
“Beautiful,” he said. He bent and kissed the hand of his bride. “Don’t you think so, Natasha?”
Natasha struggled with the cruel question. He smiled at her; he enjoyed watching her squirm.There were tears in her eyes, and she was biting down on her lip as she forced a smile.
“Yes, Pyotr,” she half whispered. “I do.”
Good. She was still obedient. He intended to test her. So far she had not strayed. She called him by his new name, Pyotr; it amused him to slip from one identity to another as he left his old life behind. She had led him to her relatives, and stuck to the story he’d fed her; Natasha had wanted to escape, and Pyotr had selflessly offered to help her; he had sacrificed all his own wealth on the altar of her desire.
Of course, her relatives in Espoo had welcomed Pytor with open arms. Especially the grandmother, Katrinka. Natasha was her favourite granddaughter, and she cooed and billed over Pyotr.
He was a saviour.
He was a hero.
And he was the favoured suitor for Natasha’s niece, Aud.
Natasha’s brother, Sven, had married a French girl from Nîmes, come back to Finland, and prospered. After the war, the French were desperate to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives, and one way to do it was to return, after rations and austerity, to glorious cooking. Marianne had relatives in the restaurant trade, and Sven made a fine living exporting Finnish delicacies: fresh fish, smoked meats, fermented honey. The entire family bought a large suburban house with a plot of garden.They owned a colour television and an American car. Sven supported his grandmother, his aging father, and one plump, plain daughter.
He had called her Aud after the great foundress of Iceland, Aud the Deep-Minded. Alas, the name was no more appropriate than Helen of Troy would have been. Aud was simple and boring. She helped her father in his store, showed no desire to attend college, and seemed to have no ambition other than to get an extra helping of pudding every night.
Sven tried to love his daughter. He had no idea why she had not turned out like Marianne, his stylish wife, or his long-lost sister Natasha, the passionate one who had eloped to Estonia with a rich banker so many years ago, both of them women who had been prepared to enter whole new worlds for love, to cast off the familiar and leap into the darkness. Aud just stood around, gaining weight and owlishly squinting at the television. She showed no interest in dressing up, or flirting with boys. For all her docility, Aud had an instinctive grasp of one thing: she was not attractive, and she would never be attractive. She gave up men as a bad job and dedicated herself to helping her father.
All Sven wanted was for his only child to show some spark of life. Often, he felt like shaking her. Sometimes, he felt like shaking his wife. He was nothing like her: where could Aud’s bad genes have come from?
And then came the night that his life, and Aud’s, changed forever.
It was cold, pitch-black, the way October nights in Espoo often are. He woke, frightened, clutching his warm woollen blankets to his chest. A nightmare? No, he realized there was a thunderous banging on the door.
The police . . . ? Someone was dead . . . ? His store had been burned down ... ? Heart pounding, he pushed his wife away from him as she reached out to clutch at his nightshirt, tugged on his boots, and raced down the stairs. Aud had crept out of her bedroom; she watched from the landing as Sven wrenched open the door.
“Sven, let us in.” It was a plaintive cry. “I’m so cold. So cold . . .”
He stared. But the sight that met his eyes did not alter. There were two figures shaking with cold, their lips blue in the light of the street lamps, on his doorstep. One of them was a skinny, pale young man in a soaking-wet fur coat, his eyes dark and wild. The other was his sister.
“My God!” he said. “My God, Tasha! You’re alive—you’re here . . .”
Her teeth chattered. Sven pulled her to him in a bear hug, then almost recoiled. Her body was freezing, and there were crystals of ice in her hair.
“Aud!” he roared. “Marianne! Get down here. Aud, lay the fire. And then draw a bath. Marianne, get some roasted elk and my bottle of whisky. Hurry!”
As he hugged Natasha, the pale young man slipped quietly inside the house and shut the door. He looked up at Aud and said, in perfect Finnish, “Make that bath barely lukewarm, or we will get chilblains. The fire must wait until we have thawed.”
Sven’s mouth opened, then closed again. The man looked like a drowned ferret, his skin was pale with the chill and his eyes horribly red from lack of sleep. But he spoke with such confidence that he could have been the mayor condescending to pay Sven a visit.
“Who are you?” he muttered.
Tasha looked nervously at the stranger, who held her gaze coolly. He answered staring into her eyes, not even looking at Sven. It was not until a year later that Sven would recall that moment as odd.
“My name is Pyotr Vladekovich,” he said.
There had never been such a night in his household. His father and grandmother had never thought they’d see Natasha again. They were overwhelmed with joy, weeping and hugging her, blessing Pyotr and the gods that had driven him to make such a desperate attempt. As Natasha recounted the tale of their escape to her family, Pyotr announced that he would take the first bath. Sven was sure the water must have hurt, with the man close to hypothermia, but no sound came from the room. He brought out fresh clothes for his guest—his own best suit and shirt—and announced that he would buy him a new wardrobe tomorrow.
The man emerged, looking four sizes too small for Sven’s clothes, yet somehow neat and defying laughter. He said a quiet word to Tasha, and she instantly tore herself from her parents and followed him to the bathroom; Marianne selected a warm nightgown and robe for her, and fleece-lined slippers, then busied herself in the kitchen, delighted to see her husband so happy. Despite their good fortune, Sven had always missed his sister, and then there was the cloud over their daughter’s prospects. He had not smiled much lately. Here, in the world’s far north, winter was a serious business, and it was hard to find nuggets of joy in the long darkness. But tonight, with their guests in warm clothing, there would be a fire, and wine, and whisky from Scotland, rare roasted meat, and warm baked potatoes.
The family settled around the fire. Marianne served them on their laps. Tasha told the story, her teeth still now, sipping gratefully at the whisky, one eye on the blazing fire as though it were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. How her husband had started to drink, then to beat her, and finally had threatened murder. How Pyotr, a merchant from the market square, had challenged him when he hit her. How the banker had threatened to call for the secret police. Escape had been their only option, and without papers there was only one way: to buy an old-fashioned sleigh, take what supplies they could and a pack of dogs, and set out on the long, wretched journey across the frozen wastes to Finland.
But first, north from Estonia on the train, with stolen money. Bargaining and arguing in small, no-account towns for dried fish and meat, furs, and rosehips—dried for their vitamin C. A gun battle when a local Red Army captain asked the wrong questions. Risking imprisonment and torture, and even death in the snow, and lastly, making the attempt: days and nights lashing at the huskies; gnawing on tough, half-frozen food; cutting the carcass of one dead dog to feed to the pack; the brutal cold that they thought would kill them, overnight, as they huddled with the remaining animals under the fur coat; and at last, though they’d thought they must die, reaching Finland—and freedom.
Selling the dogs, for a pittance; their kopecks and roubles no good here. Hiking and scavenging their way to Espoo, praying—as Natasha said with tears—that somebody could tell them of Sven, and his family. And now she and her young saviour, who had risked his own life to bring her to freedom, were here. It was a dream. . . .
Katrinka and Alfred were sobbing; Sven was wiping his eyes, Marianne clapping her hands. But Aud said nothing. She had shrunk back into the background after laying the fire.
Pyotr, Sven recalled, was gazing at her, gazing at her as though he had never seen anything more beautiful. And as Sven watched in amazement, his daughter had lowered her eyes, shyly, then glanced back up in Pyotr’s direction. And then she did something she very rarely did, indeed never other than at mealtimes.
She smiled.
Even in the midst of his joy at Tasha’s safe return, and his fascination with the harrowing tale of her flight across the steppes, Sven had not been able to repress the mundane hope that flared instantly in his heart. It was a straw—how could a man like Pyotr, a death-defying Russian adventurer, ever be interested in his lumpen pudding of a daughter?
“So, Tasha, Pyotr,” he asked. “The two of you—are you now to marry, are you in love?”
Pyotr answered immediately—again, his gaze steady on Sven’s sister.
“No,” he said. “Natasha and I are only friends. I did my duty by her as a Christian. She is still wed in the eyes of God, and besides, there is the wide difference in our ages. We will remain friends. Indeed, Natasha tells me it is her dearest wish to see me happily married.” He smiled at Tasha. “Is that not so, my dear?”
She hesitated only a second before responding. “It is, Pyotr ... my dearest wish.”
My God, Sven thought. How ill she looks . . . how grey. . . . As though she were still cold.
“Here, Tasha,” he said. “Have some more meat . . . you need iron.”
Tasha shook her head. “I—I’m not hungry,” she said. A moment before she had been ravenous. Perhaps her stomach had shrunk from her ordeal, and now she was full, Sven thought. “I’m tired,” she said. “So tired . . . In fact, Grandmama, Papa—I think I’ll go to bed. . . .”
“Of course, my dear.” Marianne clucked over her like a chicken. “You shall take our bed, Sven and I will sleep on the couch until something better can be found.” She glanced at Pyotr. “My dear Pyotr, I don’t know quite where we can put you . . .”
“There’s a couch in my room, Mama.” Aud spoke up, startling her mother. “Mr.Vladekovich can sleep there.”
“Thank you.” Pyotr lifted his eyes to hers, and with astonishment, Sven thought he saw interest there. “That’s very kind of you, Aud.”
Maybe more. Maybe . . . desire.
Oh please, dear Lord, he prayed. Let it be so, and I will never cheat on my taxes again. Or gamble, or drink vodka in the mornings. Grant me this one wish. Let my daughter marry!
“Yes,” Natasha said. She smiled brightly, but there was a false note in her voice. Sven wondered what was wrong with his sister. Alas, ever since her return from behind the Iron Curtain she had been acting strangely. Going for long walks in the cold, or spending entire days shut upstairs in her room; Alfred had moved into Katrinka’s room when the old woman died in the spring. Sven was afraid that Tasha’s brain was addled.
“She looks very pretty,” she said, in her flat monotone.
“Indeed she does. You are a princess, Aud, my darling,” Sven cried. He clapped Pyotr on the back. “And you, my boy—you are a lucky dog, to be stealing away my daughter.”
“I know.” Pyotr smiled back. “I can never repay you for this gift, Sven.”
There was a lump in his throat and his eyes misted over. It was the other way around—completely, Sven thought guiltily. It was he who owed Pyotr, for the incredible, unexpected joy of seeing his daughter like this. About to be married. And transformed by joy and love.
Secretly, her father admitted to himself that “princess” and “beautiful” were overdoing it. But Aud had changed. During the winter that Pyotr had moved in, she had bloomed under his interest. She had lost her appetite, and gained an interest in dresses and makeup. She had struggled to join conversations, and talked with wild enthusiasm about travelling the world. Sometimes her lack of knowledge made Sven wince, like when she spoke of how Russia had joined the Nazis in the war. But Pyotr never made fun of her, even if his own sister could not resist the odd cruel remark.
He made excuses for Tasha. She had been through a lot. And she had brought him Pyotr, pale and skinny and without a cent to his name, but he had been as good as Prince Charming to Sven.
Aud had lost weight. She was lively, talkative, and full of laughter. It was as though a stone had rolled from Sven’s back. He caught some local boys whistling after her once, in the spring, as she stepped out in a new dress Marianne had imported from France. He scolded them, but he had exulted in his heart. His daughter wasn’t made magically bright, or beautiful, but she was normal.
Normal was all he had ever asked for.
And his longed-for son-in-law had more than this to recommend him. In exchange for food and board, he had offered his services to Sven’s business. It was transformed in a mere matter of months. Over the winter, Pyotr burned up the telephone lines. He contacted fresh customers, arranged discounts on shipping, even bought up the business of Guthmund Ejilsson, long a thorn in Sven’s side. New accounts and orders appeared overnight. Pyotr was a ruthless, even callous negotiator, and Sven stepped back to allow him to play hardball. It was a wise decision. Money had flooded in, and he was about to buy a nice house in a new neighbourhood, closer to Helsinki. Espoo wasn’t big enough for Sven now.
He paid Pyotr, of course, but apart from buying new suits and shoes, Pyotr had saved every penny. He wanted a place of his own, he told Sven. He wanted to be able to support a family. This, with a loving glance at Aud, who gazed adoringly back.
When the engagement was announced, Sven had proudly presented Pyotr with a dowry. Ten thousand American dollars. It was a huge sum of money, enough to keep his daughter in style. Aud had clapped and squealed, and Pyotr had shaken his hand warmly and told him that this would be the foundation of everything he was to become. He said he was destined for great things. And Sven believed him.
He looked at his daughter, now, dressed in that long, white dress—a medium size, she wasn’t even fat—with a short white veil and a diamante tiara in her hair, and he smiled. He did not think he’d ever see her looking so beautiful ever again.
And he was right.
They were married at St. Stephen’s chapel, the Lutheran parish he occasionally attended, with family and a few friends from the business. Aud clutched a small bouquet of red roses—imported from European hothouses, but she deserved the best—and Pyotr wore a dark suit. He had asked Natasha to be matron of honour. She was very striking in her red sheath, dark hair piled on top of her head, but Sven thought she looked old and drawn; there was that manic air about her. To contrast with Aud, she carried a bouquet of white roses; Sven saw that Tasha clutched them hard around the thorny stems and tiny droplets of blood studded her pale hands. When Pyotr kissed Aud at the minister’s invitation, he thought Tasha swayed on her feet. Was she thinking of her own husband? Was it relief that her niece had finally gotten herself a man?
The unpleasant thought occurred to him that perhaps Tasha was jealous. But surely not. She had never said a word. And besides, just as Pyotr had pointed out, he was far too young for Natasha. If she were to remarry, it would need to be someone her own age.
Sven found comfort in that reflection.
It was barely a week later that Pyotr said at the dinner table that he had an announcement.
“It’s time for us to be off. Aud and I are going to live in France. Every family needs its independence. I’m sure you’re desperate to be rid of us anyway.”
This provoked a storm of protest. Marianne cried, Alfred mumbled about staying together, and Sven shook his head and tried to sound convincing.
In fact, he thought it would be an excellent idea if Pyotr and Aud went to France. Pyotr’s financial skills could be put to better use at the import end of the business. And to tell the truth, Sven was sick of living in a house with five adults. He wanted a little peace and quiet in his prosperous middle years. If Pyotr wanted to move to France, preferably the sunny south, Sven and Marianne could come and visit their grandchildren during Finland’s brutal winter.
“Aud’s a French citizen through you, Marianne, and as her husband I have now obtained a passport.” Pyotr reached into his pocket and produced the slim, leather-clad document.
“That was fast,” Marianne said.
Indeed. Sven was not surprised. Pyotr was the type to make plans and act swiftly on them.
“We leave tomorrow.”
Marianne set up a wail, but Pyotr did not respond. Aud awkwardly patted her mother on the back.
“Long goodbyes are worse,” she said. “I’ll call you, Mother—I’ll call you as soon as we dock.”
“We sail at dawn,” Pyotr said. “No need to accompany us to the harbour.” His voice was strangely remote, even cold, Sven remembered later. “I hate scenes.”
“It’s better for me to call you,” Aud said again. “Looking to the future, not the past.” She gazed adoringly at her husband. “Pyotr and I want to go somewhere warm, buy a house, and start working on your grandchildren.”
Sven was glad to see that this last comment provoked smiles from his wife and father. Aud hugged everybody tearfully, and he brought out a bottle of champagne.
“But I’ll drive you to the port,” he said. “You’ll have cases. And the taxis are unreliable.”
“We’re not taking anything except a change of clothes. I believe in travelling light. The less baggage the better.” Pyotr glanced at Natasha, who had sat silently at the foot of the table, staring at her hands. “And Natasha has already agreed to drive us. She’s up early in the mornings anyway.”
“Well, that’s good of you,” Sven said. He smiled at his sister. Perhaps she had gotten over whatever was bugging her. “And then you will come back to us.”
“Yes, darling,” her father croaked. “At least I will still have my little Tasha.”
Tasha nodded but said nothing. Yes, Sven thought, it was better that the young couple should leave. He wanted his sister back, the adventurous, passionate girl he used to know. And he wanted his daughter to embrace her own future.
When Sven woke up the next morning, they were gone. Their furniture and possessions were left neatly in their old rooms. He waited for Natasha to return and to tell him all about the departure.
She did not return. Aud did not call. Anxious, they contacted the police and the immigration authorities. They were told that Pyotr and Aud Vladekovich had docked at Calais a week after leaving Finland, but that was the last Sven heard of his daughter.
He never saw any of them again.
“We’ll park here.” Pyotr nodded and Natasha pulled over. It was a darkened alleyway, set back from the lamp-lit street and at least half a mile from the docks.
“What?” Aud glanced about her. “That’s silly, darling. We can get a lot closer.”
“I prefer to walk, stretch our legs.” Natasha said nothing, she simply opened the door and got out.
Aud gazed at her aunt with annoyance. She wished Daddy had driven them here. Natasha was always giving her mean looks or making snide remarks. She crowded Aud when she wanted to be alone with Pyotr.
“It’s raining,” she pointed out. But Pyotr said nothing; so, obediently, she got out of the car. Perhaps it was sentimental—perhaps he wanted to take his time saying goodbye to Finland. Even so, it was cold.
“Do you have your passport? It would be just like you to have forgotten it,” Natasha said, with a sharp contempt that shocked her niece.
Stung, she retorted, “I’ve got it right here.” Aud pulled it from her breast pocket.
“I’ll take that,” Natasha responded. She moved in and tugged the document free from the younger girl.
“What are you doing?” Aud demanded.
Her aunt turned away. “You won’t be using it,” she answered. “I will.”
“You’re crazy,” Aud cried. “Darling, tell her to shut up!”
But her husband had approached her, and there was a strange look on his face. Not adoration, not affection. He looked . . . indifferent. Even a little bored.
“You can’t seriously have imagined that somebody like you could hold my interest, Aud,” Pyotr said. “You’ve been useful, but that time is at an end.”
“Wh . . . what?”
“You heard me. Kneel down,” he said.
“What? Why?” she shouted. Aud suddenly felt terribly afraid. She wanted her father.
“Because I’m going to kill you,” Pyotr said.
She believed him.
“No!” she screamed.
Pyotr bent swiftly and took up a large stone that was lying by the side of the road. Aud tried to run, but Natasha grabbed her and held her back. Wildly struggling, Aud stared at her, pleading for her life.
“Why are you doing this?” she screamed. “You’re my aunt!”
Natasha looked at her with loathing.
“How dare you touch him!” she hissed. “Can’t you see he’s mine?”
“No!” Aud sobbed. “You’re supposed to love me!”
Natasha thrust the girl forward and Pyotr brought the rock down, in an efficient little arc, against her temple. A spot of blood oozed from the wound, and she crumpled to the ground, silent.
Natasha bent down and stripped the coat off Aud’s motionless form.
“What do you know of love?” she said.
Then she stood up and smiled brilliantly at Pyotr.
“Follow me.” He started walking.
“Anywhere, my darling,” she said brightly. She trotted along behind him, like a dog at its master’s heels.
