Tatiana’s Table

Sometimes, even as Tatiana grew older and the memories of the old life became fainter, she could still close her eyes and …

She opened her eyes and was back home in Arizona, on her bed with the green and white bedspread and the large pillows. She sat on her window seat and looked out in the deep afternoon onto the Sonoran Desert and the McDowell Mountains and the Saguaro cacti painted with white flowers, shadowing the horizon … the blinding setting sun. Then she would close her eyes and …

They were gathered around her island on a late Saturday morning. All four children were home spending the weekend. Breakfast had already been served, and it was too early for lunch, but perhaps just right for elevenses: another cup of coffee with a snack from the fridge. Harry and Pasha settled on some ham with a brioche. Janie had her brioche with jam.

“Oh, come on,” said Harry. “You couldn’t have tried that hard. My Amy wanted me to help with the kids’ diapers. I said I didn’t know how. I learned pretty quick, didn’t I?”

He was shoved and pushed by his sister, he was laughed at by his brother. Alexander was at work so he couldn’t be asked, but all the children said they would ask him that evening, and that evening at dinner they wanted to, but that evening Alexander was cooking. He made baked potatoes, a tenderloin, and corn on the cob, all on the grill, and he himself ladled out the strawberries and ice cream after dinner, while all Tatiana did was help him clean up afterward. They sat outside on the covered porch, the music played through the speakers, the stars were out and the kids were in the pool. When the evening was perfect, it seemed churlish to ask why the father who carried weapons for ten years and scars on his body for the rest of his life, the father who crawled across thousands of miles to marry their mother and make one son, and then kept himself alive long enough for her to find him so that one day many years later they could give life to three more, why the father who brought the filet mignon to their table usually sat and was served at his wife’s table, at their mother’s table, at Tatiana’s table.

Alexander’s Ice Cream

There is no need for two metal bowls and rock salt and mixing by hand, when for a few dollars, he can buy a metal bowl that spins and in thirty minutes makes delicious soft-serve ice cream. But in Lazarevo, without electricity or Williams-Sonoma or a free market economy, in the middle of war, this kind of ice-cream maker proved difficult to acquire so Alexander had to make do with two metal bowls and rock salt. He had to become the ice-cream maker.

Imagine it first, then do it. In Lazarevo, they didn’t grow tomatoes, and didn’t make pastry, they had little flour, they had no meat, they are what they grew and they grew what they could. They barely let the earth lie fallow, yet still …

An eighteen-year-old girl, newly married, was able to make for her soldier husband potato pancakes, and pancake batter, and even cabbage pie. They caught fish, and she made fish soup. There were no bananas, no plantains, no white bread, no canned goods aside from the Spam he brought with him, no sardines and no freezers. And yet the soldier man who had never cooked before imagined making something special for his child bride, something he knew she loved but hadn’t had in a very long time. And so he, wishing to make her happy, wishing to do a small thing for her, imagined what he might need to do it. And in Lazarevo he went to a fishing plant and, using his Red Army credentials, using all the powers of persuasion at his disposal, including two bottles of vodka, two cans of Spam, and two hundred roubles, bartered for some rock salt, which the fishermen used to preserve fish, and a small amount of ice from a fish storage room.

From an old man too old to go to war, Alexander borrowed two metal buckets, one large, one small that fit inside the other, the small one two-thirds the size of the large, like a sublime Fibonacci frame. He picked some blueberries, he cleaned their stems. He didn’t have lemon, but he managed to get a cup of sugar from the old ladies his bride had lived with. And he got one of them to help him get the cream that rose to the top of the fresh milk they got from the cows each morning. He macerated the blueberries with the sugar for half an hour, he added the cream, he placed these items into the small bucket. Into the large bucket he placed rock salt and ice. He set the small bucket inside the large one, and he mixed his blueberry cream, until the sides of the bucket got cold, until the mixture got icy, until it started to freeze and, as he was mixing it, to thicken. He stirred until the ice melted. It was slightly soft, but he did succeed in making his new wife ice cream in a small fishing village named Lazarevo. And when the wife saw it, she cried.

Things were a bit different fifty years down the pike, down the miles and years of a long, complicated life. Ice was abundant, refrigeration was in, rock salt was no longer necessary, there was plenty of lemon and blueberries and sugar and heavy cream. There was plenty.

On the morning of their fiftieth wedding anniversary, before the renewal of their vows at Santa Maria’s Church in Scottsdale, before the grand ballroom of the Arizona Biltmore Hotel was taken over by 400 guests for a day-long celebration, Alexander got up early while Tatiana was still sleeping and from the fridge got out two pints of strawberries.

In the bright morning, on the white sheets, covered with a large warm hunter-green down quilt, Tatiana stared at a sleeping Alexander until he woke up. “On the most important day of his life, the soldier sleeps till noon,” she said softly.

“This is not the most important day of my life,” said Alexander, jumping up. “And you know nothing.”

They stopped their ablutions and turned to each other. “Do you want to go?” he asked.

Alexander and Tatiana meandered off Nevsky, down the Griboyedov canal towards the Church of the Spilt Blood, then back to Nevsky to the Moika, past it, to the Arc of the General Staff, to the Winter Palace Square, to the Winter Palace, around the Winter Palace to the Neva, and then they walked down the granite carapace headed towards the unknown. On the opposite side of the river, the golden spire of Peter and Paul’s cathedral blazed in the morning light.

“I can’t do it,” Tatiana said. “I can’t walk down the streets of our life with you.”

In front of their family, Alexander and Tatiana renewed their vows at the family church. She wore a crème silk dress with maroon shoes and a maroon hat. Tatiana, who still weighed what she weighed in 1943 (almost), who still had her blonde hair, her open smile, her faded freckles, stood small next to Alexander’s big body in black tie.

“Shura, I can’t believe what you look like,” she whispered, gazing at him at the altar.

“What?” he said. “Old? Gray? Done for?” He took her hand and kissed it. “You’re not going to be racked with doubt again, are you, while we’re waiting for the priest?”

She chuckled softly. “I think it’s too late for that. The kids are watching.”

“Yes. Can’t annul the marriage,” said Alexander, “after it’s been so thoroughly consummated.”

“Oh, no,” said Alexander, moving closer to her. “In front of the children?”

He leaned in. “ ‘Who can find a virtuous woman?’ ” he quoted quietly from Proverb thirty-one. “ ‘For her price is far above rubies.’ ”

Father John stepped forward to stand in front of them. He cleared his throat, his glittering eyes on the congregation and on Tatiana and Alexander. “Fifty years ago, these two people stood in front of another altar of God as they stand in front of us today, wanting to reaffirm that covenant. They have asked me to speak the same words the priest commenced with in 1942.

“Most gracious God,” the priest began. “Look with favor upon this man and this woman living in a world for which your Son gave His life. Make their life together a sign of Christ’s love to this sinful and broken world. Defend this man and this woman from every enemy. Lead them into peace. Let their love for each other be a seal upon their hearts, a mantle upon their shoulders, and a crown upon their foreheads. Bless them in their work and in their friendship, in their sleeping and in their waking, in their joys and their sorrows, in their life, and in their death.” Father John smiled. “Now turn to each other. You have prepared your own readings. Alexander?”

Alexander turned to Tatiana. “Who can find a virtuous woman?” he said in his deep voice, taking her hands. “For her price is far above rubies.” He tried not to smile, and she tried not to smile. “Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish. Let him drink and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more. The heart of her husband does safely trust in her. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.” He nodded. “She seeks wool and flax and she works willingly with her hands.” Alexander squeezed Tatiana’s hands. “She is like the merchants’ ships. She brings her food from afar.” Tatiana’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her helpless head as if to stop him. “She rises while it is still night and gives meat to her household.” Alexander’s voice cracked. “She perceives that her merchandise is good. Her candle does not go out by night.” He paused. “She is not afraid of the snow for her household: for all her household are clothed in scarlet. Her husband is known at the gates, when he sits among the elders of the land. She makes herself coverings of tapestry. Strength and honor are her clothing. She opens her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness. She eats not the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed and her husband also, and he praises her,” Alexander said. “Many daughters have done virtuously, but you have excelled them all. Give her the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her at the gates.” He bowed his head momentarily. “Shh,” he whispered to her, shaking slightly.

She wiped her face. “The song of songs,” Tatiana began, “which is Solomon’s. Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for his love is better than wine. By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loves, I sought him but I found him not. I will rise now and go about the city and the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loves: I found him. I held him and would not let him go. My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing of birds is come. My beloved is mine, and I am his, he feeds among the lilies. His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are black as raven. His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters. His cheeks are as a bed of spices, his lips like lilies. His hands are as gold rings set with beryl. His legs are as pillars of marble. His mouth is most sweet: he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend.” Alexander’s eyes unblinkingly stared at Tatiana. “Set me as a seal upon your heart,” she said. “As a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, the coals thereof are coals of fire, which has a most vehement flame.” She blushed. “Many waters cannot quench love, neither the floods can drown it. Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.” She lowered her gaze, and stared at the planked floor of the church.

They renewed and vowed and confirmed and kissed and danced to the Anniversary Waltzin four languages and “E Lucevan Le Stelle” in six renditions, they ate to bursting and spent all day and night with their children, grandchildren and friends. There was music, food and drink. There was plenty.

“Tania?” They were in their bedroom. It was late, and they had just come back. Alexander was still in his tux, the cummerbund off, the bow tie now loosened.

“Yes, darling?” She had perched on the corner of the bed and was bending to take off her shoes and stockings. “You hungry? I can make you something. Though how you can eat after that—”

“What do you think you’d be doing now if you hadn’t gone back to Europe to find me?” He opened the French doors and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke out into the night.

“You almost didn’t go back. You were so close to not going back. Or you could’ve gone back and never found me. I could have been too far gone for you to find me. You could have not come to Berlin. Not found Stepanov. Many, many things could have happened or not happened. Tell me. What would have been next for you?”

“Well, I don’t know.” She struggled with herself. “Why in the world do you want to talk about this now, today of all days?”

“I’m not equivocating.” She paused. “What do you think would’ve happened to you?” she asked, equivocating. She lowered her eyes.

“Yes, don’t look at me,” he said. “As if I don’t know what you’re doing. Anyway, what was your question? What would’ve happened to me? Ah, that’s easy. I would’ve been taken to Kolyma. I know what my sentence was. Twenty-five years. I would have stayed in prison for three years, five, ten, and then I would have tried to escape.”

In a small voice she asked, “Tried, or escaped?” She kicked off her high heels. They were killing her feet. He watched her. Watched her take off her high heels because they were killing her feet. She nearly gave out. “Shura …” she breathed out, opening her hands to him.

“Tried. Or escaped,” he said flatly, still near the French doors, one foot in, one out. “Either way, the result would have been the same. I would’ve been caught. Either I would have been shot dead or taken to Novaya Zemlya, to Lenin’s Island, up in the Arctic Circle, where I would have spent until the mid-sixties wishing I had been shot dead.”

But he continued. “In the sixties, when they were rehabilitating many old soldiers, I would have been ‘pardoned’ and released. I would have been sent to exile, to Magadan, or worse, to Aykhal.”

“Precisely. There I would have mined the alluvial deposits for ten years or so. Until I was rehabilitated and in the seventies allowed to return to Leningrad. They would’ve reinstated my rank, perhaps even promoted me. They would have given me an exclusive membership at the Party athletic club, so I could swim in style any time I wanted to. Suspecting that I spoke flawless English, they would have given me a cushy position as a military advisor and my own apartment near Senate Square where I could look out my windows onto the statue of the Bronze Horseman. During the night I’d pull the curtains open to let the northern sun melt into the burning horizon and rise again behind the Neva.”

“Have you given this much thought, Alexander?” Tatiana said, her sad voice tinged with bitterness.

“Why? Why torture yourself?” Why torture yourself today is what she wanted to add.

“Not this, no. But tell me what you would have done if you hadn’t gone looking for me? Many people, I’m sure, judged you harshly for leaving our son.”

“No,” said Alexander. “How could I have, Tatiana? I was already married.”

“Probably. I may have eventually come here, settled here.” Her voice was low.

“Probably.” This was said in an inaudible whisper. “Though seeing what it took even for us, the answer should be possibly, not probably.”

“You’re wrong. It’s because it was you and me that it took so long.” Alexander fell quiet.

“No,” he said, but didn’t say much more. “Anthony would have been safe. He wouldn’t have gone to Vietnam.”

With a closing heart, Tatiana shook her head. “Oh yes, he would have. He would’ve wanted to be like the warrior father he never knew.” She swallowed to wet her dry throat. “He would have come back, and he might have even been injured. He would have still moved up in rank, he would have become Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. And as Communism was falling like bricks in the Berlin Wall, he would have gone back to Russia, just as he did a few years ago to talk the Soviet government into releasing the records on the U.S. servicemen MIA since the Second World War. He would have asked me to go with him. And I would have gone.”

He came to sit beside her on the bed. “How old would I be when you found me?”

Grand Hotel Europe, June, 1991

When forty-eight-year-old Anthony walked into the ballroom and restaurant at the Grand European Hotel, his staff of two and the four Russian generals were already sitting at the table. Anthony was forty minutes late for an hour-long meeting to review his speech for Soviet television that evening. He came to the table, apologized, and sat between his assistant and his aide. Anthony’s contact, General Vennikov and three other Soviet generals deep into their sixties, were sitting across from him at the rectangular table in the back by the stage, sipping tea and reading Izvestiya.

Turned out they had already begun. The Soviets had made a number of changes to the speech, and as Anthony watched, a number more. One of the generals, in between endless cigarettes, was crossing out with spectacular glee practically every other word, another was busy pouring himself vodka, and the third was chatting up the waitress.

Vennikov eyed the heavily revised speech with satisfaction, such satisfaction that Anthony said to him, “Why don’t you just have your generals write my speech for me? Perhaps that’s what I need. Four speechwriters.”

Studying Anthony, the smoking general smoked down another half a cigarette before he exhaled. Anthony shook his head. The man was not coughing. He was smiling, however. He said in English, “I would offer you a cigarette but I can see by your slightly irritated American manner that you don’t smoke.”

“I do smoke, and it’s not the smoking that’s irritating me,” said Anthony.

Vennikov said in his heavily accented English, “When we’re in your country, you can revise our speeches all you want General Ludloff, but until then …”

“It’s not the revising, it’s the re-writing,” Anthony broke in. “And it’s General Ludlow. All right, let’s see it. Let’s get it over with.”

“You can keep your speech as you like, General Ludlow,” said the smoker, “since it’s in English. But since I’m your translator, permit me to read it how I like in Russian. I am not arguing with you about your speech. I am just saying, a lecture is perhaps not what we need.”

The translator’s English was much better than Vennikov’s. He knew his job well. Anthony was impressed. The changes he had made to the speech in his translation were informed changes, geared mainly to diplomacy and tact, rather than toward a blatant manipulation of facts. He was versed in the MIA situation and had a careful way of presenting the salient facts to the Soviet government. His red pen in hand and a cigarette in his mouth, the translator said, “General Ludlow, have you ever thought of learning Russian? In your line of work it would come in quite handy.”

“Thank you for your unsolicited advice, General. I do not write in Russian. But I do speak Russian. And read Russian. Which is how I am aware of the changes you are making in your, shall we say, quite loose interpretation of my speech.”

Vennikov said, “The problem with your speech is that you are wrong about us, General Ludloff; we just need a little time. We cannot repair everything in a month. We are working hard on the MIA problem. We are improving our current identity records. In Afghanistan we know the names of nearly all the dead and wounded Soviet soldiers,” he added proudly.

“And more to the point,” said the translator, “your comments about the difference between the Soviets and the Americans are inflammatory.” The translator read from Anthony’s speech. “ ‘Our president wrote a letter to his children before the Iraqi war a few months ago and in it said, ‘How many American boys am I willing to sacrifice to win this?’ And the answer is, not one. Not a single one. One is too many.’ ” He exhaled smoke rings at Anthony. “Maybe we could stop there. Do we really need to add that we in the Soviet Union thought twenty million was not enough?”

Anthony studied him with surprise. “I didn’t write that in my speech,” he exclaimed.

“No?” said the translator, his eyes twinkling. He turned back to the text. “Must be my mistake, then. My English isn’t what it used to be.” He picked up his red pen.

The translator lit another cigarette. “You had some MIA problems in Vietnam, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Unsolvable problems so far. The Vietnamese refuse to cooperate.” Anthony shrugged. “A thousand MIAs. We’ll get them. Slowly but surely, we’ll get them.”

Nodding, the translator said, “I am sure you will, General Ludlow. After all, here you are, fifty years after the Second World War, returning to recover information on a mere ninety-one American soldiers missing in action.”

The waitress brought them vodka, seven shot glasses, and Russian hors d’ouvres. Caviar, black bread, white bread, butter, herring, salami. A little salad Olivier, a little venigret. They broke for recess.

Anthony liked the Russian cuisine, taking some bread and caviar and herring. It was his Russian blood. He drank a shot of vodka in the middle of the afternoon as if he had done it all his life. He raised a glass to the newly forged relationship between the Soviets and the Americans, downed two full shots of vodka for this special friendship and ate the venigret and salad Olivier with gusto. The generals watched Anthony with curiosity. The translator said, “You drink like a true Russian.”

Vennikov gasped. “Your mother was born in the Soviet Union?” The generals stared at Anthony now with more than idle curiosity. Anthony was delighted.

His assistant nudged him under the table. “General Ludlow, may I have a quick word with you, sir?” They stood up and stepped away a few feet. “Sir, we might want to be careful with the information we give to these people.”

“Who the hell knows? Six months ago they were abducting their own leader and holding him hostage at a holiday resort! These Soviets are an unknown quantity. We must be more careful.”

Anthony made a serious face. “You’re right. I don’t want to cause an international incident. As the general points out, we’re not here to inflame. Or are we?”

“It’s great,” said Anthony. “Where were we? I think we were discussing point thirteen, dealing with the immediate notification and discourse between the two countries regarding any new information on war prisoners or missing in action.”

“General Ludlow,” said Vennikov, “frankly I’m surprised to hear your mother is from the Soviet Union. This changes things. Yesterday, with you present, I showed her our war records. I was being courteous, a good host. I thought she was looking for someone out of idle curiosity.”

“With all due respect, General,” said Anthony, “did you think my mother came here from the United States to look for someone just because she was idly curious? My mother doesn’t have time to be idly curious. The President of the United States offered her the chair of the American Red Cross. She told him she was too busy to accept. She is not here on vacation.”

“She was trying to find the name of a man in the war records who had been thought dead since 1943.”

Vennikov laughed out loud. He shook his head. “General Ludloff, if she has his death certificate, I’d say he is more than thought dead.”

“That’s what she thought,” said Anthony. “But why does his name not appear in the death records then, not here, nor in Moscow?”

“I told you,” Vennikov said cheerfully, “our records are far from complete.”

“I can see that.” Anthony was growing impatient. “But broadly speaking, were death certificates issued for soldiers who were still alive?”

“He was her husband,” replied Anthony without further ado. Stony silence fell at the table. The Soviet men stared at Anthony with slack confusion.

Dave, the assistant, shot up from the table and said, “General, could I see you for a—”

Anthony smiled. His mother would be proud of him. Vennikov was red in the face. The other two generals took their cues from Vennikov.

It was the translator who puzzled Anthony, however. His strong-jawed face was not slack, nor was it dumbstruck, and his mouth wasn’t open. His eyes remained unblinkingly on Anthony, as he cleared his throat and said, “General Ludlow, what was the name of the dead officer?”

There was a short silence at the table followed by raucous laughter from three Russian men, three excluding the translator who stared intensely at Anthony. Anthony blinked momentarily, and saw a flicker of—

Vennikov, still laughing, said, “Your mother should have just asked me. I would have helped her immediately. She could have saved herself and me a lot of aggravation.” He stuck his finger out at the translator. “This is General Alexander Below. As you can see for yourself he is not dead. He did serve in our great war, proudly and well, and is a many times decorated officer in the Red Army. Bring your mother here. Maybe this is the man she is looking for. Maybe this is her dead husband!” He did not stop laughing, and neither did the other two generals. Anthony’s assistant and aide smiled nervously.

“I am probably wrong,” muttered Anthony, lowering his gaze. “There must be so many Alexander Belovs. It’s quite a common name, no?” He raised his eyes again.

“Perhaps,” agreed the translator non-committally. “What is your full name, General?”

“Anthony Alexander Barrington Ludlow,” replied Anthony, and saw the translator’s face grow white. A film clouded his raw, unwavering eyes.

Vennikov said, “General Belov, you can thank your lucky stars it is not you that woman is looking for.”

“Not for many years now—fifty-five to be exact,” said the translator, “but once upon a time, Alexander Barrington was the name I carried.”

David, a grown man, was whimpering. “General Ludlow, this is a public relations disaster. Please, could we talk a moment?”

“No,” snapped Anthony, without taking his eyes off the man across the table. Neither Anthony nor the translator spoke. He could not look away from Alexander. “She remarried,” he said in English. “She thought you were—”

“I know what she thought,” Alexander interrupted. “She still has the death certificate.” His hands shook as he tried to light a cigarette. Finally he lit it, inhaled deeply, smoked it down, stubbed it out and lit another.

Anthony looked at the translator’s hands and then at his own. They were the same hands. His were palms down on the table.

Vennikov came to the rescue. “General Belov, this must be an administrative error, don’t you agree? Why would there be a death certificate filled out with your name? It’s a different Alexander Belov.”

Vennikov exclaimed, “You’re not the same Alexander Belov, I tell you!” He spun to Alexander. “General Belov, if you’re the man she is looking for, that means that General Ludloff is your—”

“Son,” Alexander finished. “It means that General Anthony Ludlow is my son.”

Disgruntled, Vennikov looked at Alexander. “This is impossible!” he growled.

Alexander stepped away from the table and said, “Haven’t you heard the nasty rumors about me, Comrade Vennikov?”

Anthony brought his trembling hand to his temple and saluted the man standing in front of him.

“And so, you see?” said Tatiana quietly. “Here we would be. You and me.”

Now it was Alexander’s turn to stare at her dumbstruck. “Indeed, Tania. I thought you never thought about it?”

“Oh, once or twice. And here we would still be, just like now,” she whispered.

Their souls, from her eyes to his, flew back and forth. “Not everything,” said Tatiana, closing her eyes. Thirty feet in front of her, in full military uniform with black hair underneath his beige cap with the red star, stood Alexander.

And Alexander closed his. Barefoot in a yellow sundress with her hair in two little braids, on her tiptoes on top of his boots stood Tatiana.

Back then, when they closed their eyes, they could not imagine a life without one another. Alexander went to Lazarevo because he could not imagine it.

With bowed heads they retreated, busied themselves with their nighttime routine, with getting ready for bed. They tried to make small talk. “You know, you never did learn to cook that beef pho from Vietnam. I loved that stuff,” he said.

And he averted his eyes. “We can always get some at Phuong’s.” Phuong’s was a Vietnamese restaurant in Scottsdale.

“That’s a good idea,” Tatiana said vaguely. She had never gone and never intended to.

“An Englishman, a Frenchman and a Russian are looking at a painting of Adam and Eve. The Englishman says, look how stoic, how poised. They must be English. And the Frenchman says, Nonsense, look at how erotic, how sensual, how full of flesh. They must be French. And the Russian says, Absolutely not. They’re naked, they have no food, no water, and no shelter, yet they’re told they have everything. They’re Russian.”

And then he whispered, “Wait, I’ll be right back.” When he returned, he was holding a small bowl in his hands. She sat up. He sat at the edge of the bed, she closed her eyes, and he gave her a taste of something he had made earlier that morning.

Strawberry Ice Cream

2 cups (350g) fresh, ripe, thinly sliced strawberries

¼ cup (55ml) fresh lemon juice

1 cup (200g) sugar, divided in halves

¼ cup (55ml) orange liqueur

1 cup (225ml) milk

2 cups (450g) heavy cream

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

First macerate the strawberries. In a medium stainless steel bowl, place straberries, lemon juice, ½ cup (100g) sugar, and orange liqueur. Stir gently to coat strawberries, cover and let stand for two hours.

Strain the strawberries, reserving the juice. Mash or purée ¾ of the strawberries, reserving the rest.

In a medium bowl, combine milk and the remaining ½ cup (100g) sugar, beating with a hand mixer until sugar is dissolved, a minute or two.

Add puréed strawberries, the reserved strawberry juice, heavy cream and vanilla and mix with hand mixer until blended.

Place in the frozen bowl of an ice-cream maker and churn for about 20–25 minutes until mixture turns thick and frozen. In the last five minutes of churning, add the remaining ¼ of the strawberries. Eat soft-serve, or place in a freezer-safe container.

She ate it and cried. Soon he put the melting ice cream away. “Shura,” Tatiana whispered, “darling, forget what should have been. Remember all that was.”

“Tatiasha, babe,” Alexander whispered, coming back to bed to be covered, “my one and only wife, forget our age, our splendid youth, forget it all and let our crazy love make us young.”

CHAPTER NINE

Psalms and Songs and Aykhal Visions

Alexander’s Ice Cream

Grand Hotel Europe, June, 1991

Strawberry Ice Cream