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IT’S BAD TO WAKE UP in Russia and not know what people are saying. It’s even worse after a bomb attack. It’s disastrous when you’re separated from the only person who can understand you.
Whether it was the concussion that knocked me off my feet or the pushing rush of the people trying to escape, I didn’t know. I lost the grip on Vasily’s hand and was dragged backwards, then shoved into a shelf. I hit hard against my back, but then I realized that I had to think quick before I got trampled. I spun around on one leg and kicked a roll of napkins from the lower shelf. I crawled in between them, hoping the shelves wouldn’t collapse in the blast, or whatever was going on.
Not a second later, the bomb went off, and flaming pieces of napkins and screaming people went flying past me. I shut my eyes and tucked my hands around my head. For the first time in a long time, I started to pray. I heard things fall from shelves, glass break, and a whoosh of air.
After the blast, everything in the store went deadly, eerily silent. I was terrified I was the only one left alive. Someone had fallen face down near the shelf where I was hiding, the back of their green jacket splattered with glass shrapnel and blood. I crawled over them slowly, then froze at a child’s body. I didn’t know anything about first aid, but I saw his chest heaving slowly, despite a cut on the side of his face that ran with blood.
I gagged, dizzy and my head ringing, moving forward slowly and picking my way across the broken glass in every direction. Split bottles of pickles and dented cans littered the ground everywhere I looked. Behind me, the shelf that had saved my life was bent in the middle, and I realized I had been a foot away from being crushed to death.
As soon as the sounds were sucked from the air, they returned all at once, like someone had unmuted life. Sirens blared in the distance, but they were drowned by crying and names being called. It was utter chaos as the grocery store erupted into terrified screams in Russian.
Confused, disoriented, I finally made it out of the aisle, pushing myself to my feet because of the shattered glass everywhere. The front doors were blown, and even more broken jars lay everywhere amidst piles of produce; apples split open, exploded pomegranates, shredded cabbage leaves, and blown bits of banana peel were scattered across the tile. The metal carafe where Vasily had got his soup was laying by the counter, ten feet from its home in the deli, dented and spilling the red fish soup everywhere. I swore in French over and over again, as something warm ran into my right eye. I touched my finger to my eyebrow and came away with blood, though not much, from a cut over my eye.
“Vasily!” I called, but my voice was lost with the panic of the crowd. I stopped at the broken glass doors as officials in yellow reflective jackets rushed in, screaming orders in Russian. One of them yelled in my face, but I shook my head. I didn’t understand. He pushed me, hard, and I almost fell again towards the pile of glass, while he reached behind me to help someone else. Another person, a woman, this time wearing blue, pulled me out the doors. I stepped through the metal frame as the woman pointed to a large white van with red lights and black tape across the side. It looked enough like an ambulance from home, so I stumbled in that direction. People, some walking, some limping, and others carrying small children and wailing, pushed behind me.
People were gathered around the ambulance, a few with cuts on their faces, arms, and legs, and a woman with a small child whose arm was bent backwards, surely broken, I thought. Everything was so loud as people yelled at me from every direction; then, the calm voice of a paramedic from a second ambulance that had pulled up.
“...angliyskiy?” I heard him ask as he shook me by the shoulders.
“Da, yes,” I tried to say, “I speak English.”
“Here!” He said, and he helped me into the back of the ambulance, throwing a green blanket around my shoulders.
“Vasily,” I said weakly, “Did you find my friend Vasily?”
He shook his head and rushed away to find more injured.
I stood by the ambulance, holding on to the metal handle on the door for support, as I scanned the crowd spilling out of the front of the store. Some walked, some stumbled, as I had, and others had to be helped by different officials. The man from my ambulance was helping others being loaded on stretchers.
“Jaqui?”
I spun around to see Vasily, wrapped in the same blanket I was, and looking none the worse for wear. I let go over my blanket and flung myself into his arms. He gripped me tight as his blanket fell away, and he lifted me off my feet, holding my shoulders in one arm, my legs in the other.
He brushed the hair from my face. “What happened? You’re bleeding!” He reached for the corner of my blanket and touched it to my eye.
“It’s nothing,” I told him, burying my face in the shoulder of his coat, no doubt smearing it with blood. “I can’t look. Please, don’t let me look. So many stretchers. Are they ...”
He pulled me close, his hand on the back of my head. “Jaqui, I thought you were dead.”
I stared up at him, trying to focus on his face. His bushy brows over brilliant blue eyes, his dark blond hair that fell over his forehead. I closed my eyes, trying to immortalize it. “I thought you were for sure.”
“It’s a good thing we were at the front of the store when it went off,” his voice was wavy, like a dream, and cracked, as if I would break at any minute. He set me down softly, holding me on wobbling legs.
I held him at arm’s length, looking him up and down. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I patted his arms and legs, and brushed his hair, littered with bits of white dust and debris, from his face. I examined every bit of him, searching for a wound.
He let me examine him, moving his hands out of the way. “I’m fine. Sore from being trampled. A little dizzy.”
“Me, too,” I said, and collapsed against him.
He held me, swearing in Russian. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
I was still breathing heavy, as was he, when the paramedic returned with more people and started to treat those that were badly injured. After a long wait, I pulled away long enough for the medic to wipe away the blood and apply a butterfly bandage to the cut above my eye. He conversed with Vasily in Russian, and Vasily translated he was making sure he hadn’t suffered any injuries. The paramedic told us to wait there and he rushed to the next ambulance that had just pulled up and was loading stretchers.
Vasily and I sat on the bumper of the ambulance, his arm wrapped around me. It soothed the din exploding around us, and reminded me of the comfort I felt in his arms. I don’t know why I had crawled into bed with him that afternoon. I just knew I needed him.
“I’m so sorry about everything that’s happened,” he whispered urgently.
“You don’t have to do this, not now,” I protested. Why did he choose this moment, with all the chaos around us, to say this to me?
He pushed my hair back behind my ear. “No, I have to say it now. I don’t give a shit about the pills, about anything that happened at Tanets or with Misha. I love you, Jaquellyn.”
“Oh, Vasily,” I breathed.
His face reddened and I knew how embarrassed he was to say it out loud. I should have been shocked, but I wasn’t. I had known all along. But as the din around us began to fade and more sirens headed our way, I found I couldn’t say it back. Today had been heaven for me, at least until the attack; walking along the streets of St. Petersburg made me feel alive. Yet despite all that, I couldn’t change what I had done. I wasn’t worthy, and I knew it. Every fiber of my being screamed: Please, believe me, nothing happened with Misha. I sent him away. All I want is you.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to say it,” he whispered, jerking me back to the present. “If you never say it, if I lose you tomorrow, if another bomb explodes, at least I’ve said it. At least you know. At least ...”
“Shh. I’ve always known.” I leaned in and kissed him, tenderly, sweetly. It was awful to give him such hope, but in him I found the comfort I needed.
“Ahem.”
Our embrace broke to find the same woman who had pulled me out the doorway standing front of us, holding a notebook. She rattled something off in Russian, and Vasily responded. I caught snippets; we were at the counter, we didn’t see anything. Trampled, both of us.
“I hid in a shelf,” I told him. He blinked at me and repeated it to the officer. She responded, jotting in her notebook. Vasily rattled off numbers, and I assumed it was an address, or a phone. She nodded and flipped her notebook shut, and said something else.
“We can go,” he said to me, and we left our blankets in the ambulance.
“Please tell me we can take a cab,” I asked him as we walked away from the worst thing I had ever seen.
“We might have to walk far to get one, but yes, no metro. It has likely been stopped in this event, anyway.”
I tucked my arm in his. “Please, Vasily, let’s go home.”
He beamed at me, such an odd thing after what we had just been through. “I thought you would never ask,” he answered softly.
***
VASILY’S AUNT WAS BESIDE herself with worry, rushing up to him the minute we walked in the door, putting both hands on his face and softly speaking to him in Russian. He assured her a million times he was okay. She grabbed my hand and patted it, her face frowning in worry. She ran a finger over the bandage near my eye and asked if it hurt.
“Not much,” I told her.
“It’s on the news,” Sergei said to me in French. Him and Vlad were sitting cross legged on the floor, glued to the small TV that sat across the room from the piano. “They are calling it a terrorist attack.”
I was still clinging to Vasily fervently as we sat next to his aunt on the couch. “I should call my mother,” I said suddenly, “let her know I’m okay.”
“Does she even know you’re in St. Petersburg?” Vasily asked me quietly.
“No, I didn’t tell her. Damn international codes.”
“You’re made of money, and you can’t afford a foreign call?” Vasily snapped. “I’m sorry,” he added immediately, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This night has been the most horrid.”
“Money?” Vlad said in Russian, turning around and peering at me. He jumped to his feet. “You’re Jaquellyn Arnolt! Arnolt!” He kept yelling it.
“Shh,” Aloyna pointed to the TV.
Vlad ignored her and rushed up the stairs.
Strange child, I thought. Does he know me? How could he? Paris is a world away!
The four of us watched in silence as the reporters took turns describing the events. Sergei translated softly in French for me. Hiding in the shelf and feeling the blast rushed over me again, and I shivered, closing my eyes. Vasily rubbed my arms and whispered in my ear, “Are you okay?”
“Maybe,” I said, “I don’t know.”
Vlad returned then, waving a magazine cut out in his hand. “Arnolt,” he said, dropping it in his lap.
I turned it over to see a picture of a man in the dapper black business suit I remember, holding a dish with one hand and the silver lid with the other. He was smiling widely. Russian titles and text covered the bottom of the shiny page, and in the very bottom corner, a date from five years ago.
Tears sprung to my eyes then and I gasped.
Vasily took it from my lap. “That’s ...”
“My father,” I said, choking back a sob.
Vlad must have understood, but read my emotions wrong. He shouted excitedly and gave me a thumbs up.
Aunt Aloyna looked over and muttered in Russian. Vasily responded and then said something to Vlad, who’s happy face instantly fell to sympathy. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Vlad loves to cook,” Vasily translated. “This is his hero.”
“Of French cuisine?” I whispered, my voice cracking.
“Of everything,” Vasily translated again, but he searched my eyes, mouthing I’m sorry.
I handed the paper back to Vlad. “Translate,” I told Sergei, who was better at French than Vasily. He nodded. “This was my father, Marceau.”
Vlad’s eyes lit up. Sergei translated, “I know, I figured it out that he was.” Vlad looked at his mother. “She is a millionaire, mama, an actual millionaire.”
Aloyna looked at Vasily and threw up her hands, talking excitedly. She jumped up from the couch and fled to the kitchen.
“What was that?” I asked him.
“She says how could I not tell her, and now she must go clean her house from top to bottom.”
“What?” I shook my head. “You don’t have to do that! Sergei, tell her she doesn’t have to do that!”
“She says she must because you are like royalty,” Sergei translated, shrugging.
I stood up. “No, this is not what I wanted.” I looked at Vasily in exasperation. He got to his feet and went in the kitchen. I heard them argue in low tones, but Sergei and Vlad had glued themselves to the TV again, ignoring me.
The reporters seemed to run out of info, as the station flipped back to some kind of family drama. Sergei flipped the station to sports.
I followed Vasily into the kitchen, where he was gripping his aunt by the shoulders. She was crying. She looked at me.
“You ... stay ... Christmas?” She said in halting English.
I looked at Vasily, who implored me silently. “Da,” I told her. In French, I said: “Are we going to tell her that we have to leave within the week to make it back for the Nutcracker?” He waved me away and mouthed, later.
She stared at Vasily and wiped her tears, then said something to him loudly, to which he smiled and chuckled.
From the other room, Sergei laughed.
I poked my head around the corner. “What did she just say?”
Sergei was still laughing. “She said, she is glad her Vasily has brought a good woman home finally.”
“Tell her I’m not—” I started, but Vasily threw me a sharp look.
His aunt was still talking, and she grabbed his chin to focus on her.
“Da, da,” Vasily said, nodding. He looked at me. “She wants you to go take a bath upstairs while she cooks a fine dinner, but it will not be as good at the great Arnolts are used to.”
“Tell her that schi is fine with me. Anything but fish soup.”
“Damn it, I never got my fish soup,” he frowned. His aunt waved us out of the kitchen as she set about lighting the pilot on the stove and turning to the ice box behind Vasily.
“You found the bathroom already,” he said, as I followed him up the narrow staircase to the second floor of the tiny flat.
I chuckled at that. “I did, this morning.”
He turned and looked at me. “About this morning...”
“Stop,” I told him, “it was perfect.”
“Perfect?” his face reddened as we reached the bathroom door. “It was far from...”
I shook my head. “Thank you, Vasily.”
“For what?” He looked at me, confused.
“For not giving up on me,” I whispered. “Now, if you don’t mind?”
He held the door open for me and I stepped past him, welcome for an opportunity to collect my thoughts at last. He shut the door behind me and I listened as he retreated down the stairs.
The bathtub was smaller than I was used to back in Paris, but a welcome sight after crawling out of a collapsed shelf, not to mention—although it was strange I would think about this—the narrow confines of my shower at the academy.
I sank into the warm water, my knees barely poking above the surface, and I hugged them to my chest. Visions ran through my mind of losing Vasily in the crowd and the deafening concussion of the blast played over in my head. The steam that rose was nothing to combat the dam that broke as tears cascaded down my cheeks as I replayed the scene from the ambulance in my head.
I love you, Jaquellyn.
I hadn’t responded. I couldn’t. He’d said it before, back at Tanets, but this time it was a desperate plea for a response. I knew he didn’t understand why I couldn’t answer him so easily. No man had said that to me before, and it terrified me. What was love? A shared glance, a touch of the hand, a fuck in the darkness? There had to be more to it than that. My heart finally calmed as I remembered the feel of his arms around me this afternoon, when we shared a bed. Maybe love was just that one person you couldn’t live without.
St. Petersburg was beautiful, and Vasily’s childhood home was something from a fairy tale. No balconies or staff, just a piano and a homecooked meal. From everything at the academy to our stroll beside a frozen river, I found myself wondering why life could be like this. We could quit Tanets, move here, and teach somewhere. Live our lives in the quiet where no one, well, almost no one, knew I was the daughter of Marceau Arnolt and Vasily was the grandson of Sergei Rachmaninoff. We could stop being famous and start being ... us.
I started to shake as the water chilled, but I also couldn’t imagine my life without Vasily. How did this end? Did we spend endless days at Tanets, pretending there wasn’t something between us? Did this end with him discovering I was horribly damaged, to the point where I shuddered when he touched me? Or ... would I go back to Paris and try to forget he had consumed me the last few months?
I didn’t love him. I couldn’t. I clung to that like my last hope for freedom; I am the daughter of a millionaire and we could never live quiet lives. My sister Elise managed it a half a world away, but she wasn’t a star ballerina like I was. Besides that, Vasily was quiet, sweet, and shy. He was everything I had always hated about men. He didn’t take what he wanted, and refused to live his life. He just went with the flow, I supposed.
But then again, lately, so did I. I let Misha sell me pills, though I refused what he wanted for payment. I let Sasha do what he wanted, and I’d never forgive myself.
Maybe Vasily and I were more alike than I knew. Maybe we were both victims in a different way, but if I didn’t let go of his hand, we could be more. More than just two dancers floating through life. We could be leaders, conquerors, heroes. I could let myself love him, I could let him make me happy. But I didn’t want to settle; my mother had settled. Still, I wanted what she and Elijah had. That all-consuming love everlasting—but was I too damaged to allow myself that piece of happiness?
“Jaqui?” A knock on the door, startling me from my thoughts, and a call from Vasily. “Dinner is ready. Take your time.”
“I’m just about finished,” I yelled back. The water was cold now anyway. I rolled my shoulders as I dressed, feeling the stress slide away.
It was then I realized that St. Petersburg held more than just pretty winter scenery; it was a chance to start over.