Paul dashed the back of his hand across his eyes as he hastily made his retreat from St. Andrew’s Church.
The same thoughts that at the moment were in his sister’s mind were crossing his also. But he knew they’d both be better off if this were their last meeting.
What he’d said about the police arresting her and the family because of his revolutionary activities was a real enough danger. He had spoken a true fear, and that was sufficient reason in itself for avoiding all future contact. He had known that very thing to happen to the innocent families of others.
There was more than that, of course.
It tore him apart every time he thought of, much less laid eyes on his sister. It stirred too many longings in him that were best forgotten. The warm security of being surrounded by a loving family was not to be his lot in life. It was absurd to put himself through such torture.
Thus he put as much distance as he could between him and Anna, and did so quickly, walking away from the church as if the devil himself were on his tail.
He was panting freely by the time he reached Maly Prospect. His exhaustion came as much from lack of nourishment as from the swiftness of his pace. He continued on for a few more blocks, then stopped for a rest. He found a small courtyard between two dilapidated tenements, slipped inside, and sat down next to a pile of garbage. A rat scurried past, but he hardly noticed. He had long ago become accustomed to their inevitable presence.
Paul tore open Anna’s bundle and silently applauded his concession in taking it. Inside, neatly wrapped, were a large loaf of stout brown bread, a rich hunk of cheese, and several plump red apples. He finished off half the contents in less than ten minutes. The rest he put in his pockets for later. He rose and started again on his way.
He walked another hour or two, until well past dark. Roaming the city streets seemed to be his chief occupation of late. There was little else for a homeless fugitive to do. He could stop for a while here or there. But remaining too long in one place could get him arrested just as easily for vagrancy as sedition.
Mostly he frequented back streets and poor neighborhoods where his presence would go unnoticed. He seldom went to the same place twice if he could help it, at least not on successive days, and never showed his face anywhere he had lived prior to the assassination.
When he had first come to the city he lived just this sort of aimless, homeless existence. He had known so little then! Had it not been for Kazan, it was doubtless he would have survived at all that first winter. But now he knew the ropes, and it was a good thing. For his life depended on his experience in a far more profound way than it did back then. Then, cold and starvation were his only enemies. Now, there were a thousand enemy eyes that might be peering out of the dark, waiting to snatch him! He had to scrounge food, keep away frostbite, and watch out for all those unknown lurking eyes at the same time.
Sometimes all the wariness in the world was not enough. And on that particular evening, Paul’s mind was cluttered with things other than his own safety. He had not been able to rid his heart and mind of his encounter with Anna.
When he walked into the little tavern on the Eighteenth Line of Vassily Island, his thoughts were too preoccupied to remember that he had been there the day before with Basil, or to think that he had come this way and stopped in at this very place on too many occasions in the previous months. All he wanted was a strong glass of kvass, and this place had the best for the money.
He ordered the glass, laid down his last few coins, and took not the slightest note of the peculiar glare in the proprietor’s eyes as he served him. Nor did he grasp the veiled and furtive attempts by the barmaid, who seemed to have taken a liking to him, to convey signals of warning.
“That’s him!” cried the tavern owner.
Glancing up almost distractedly, Paul suddenly realized that it was he himself the man was pointing to. It was too late! The gendarmes had already pushed their way into the tavern and were making their way toward him.
They grabbed hold of Paul’s arms roughly, knocking over the kvass, and dragging him from his seat.
“I knew he’d be back,” gloated the owner, “the way my bar girl was flirting with him the other day.”
“What’s this all about?” said Paul.
“You’ve been involved in secret meetings and passing out seditious literature—that’s what!” said one of the policemen.
“That’s ridiculous!” protested Paul. Oddly, the lie sounded discordant in his mouth, no doubt because Anna was still so fresh in his mind.
“Don’t believe him,” put in the owner. “I’ve seen him. He was here just yesterday with another of them, talking all hidden and quietlike.”
“Come along peaceful if you know what’s good for you, you rotten scum. You’ll see what happens to murderers and traitors.”
Suddenly, in the passage of just a minute or two of time, what Paul had feared for so long was upon him. The likelihood of capture had been a constant part of his existence for months, yet the reality came as a shocking, terrifying surprise.
Later, as he sat in a cold, dark cell in some city gaol, he realized he would never be able to deliver another message to Anna.
Basil Anickin was running loose, and there was no one to stop him.