father clutched a ball as if it was the most precious thing he owned, as if that ball could save the world.
Laura had seen pictures of her own parents from this same period — her mother in saddle shoes on a swing with her best friend, her father posing outside his parents’ drugstore, a lollipop in his hand — but this looked like a different century, a different universe. Alyosha’s father and grandparents looked like refugees, which, in a way, they were. Leningrad was under siege by the Germans at that time, and people were starving and dying by the thousands.
Alyosha plucked an even older photo out from behind this picture. “I hide this picture here,” he whispered. “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
The older picture showed three pampered children in rich satin clothes — two boys and a girl with a little white dog on her lap — posing on a velvet couch before a painting of a man on a horse. “This is my grandmother, my father’s mother, as a little girl, with her brothers, before the revolution. Around 1915, I guess. Their father was a merchant. He was killed by the Bolsheviks a few years later and their house was taken by the government and divided into tiny apartments. Grandmother’s brothers were killed as well. They let Grandmother live because she pretended to be the family maid.”
Laura took the picture from him and stared at it. “That is so sad. But why do you hide the picture?”
“It’s not good to have aristocratic roots. You know that.”
“But you can’t help what your grandparents and great-grandparents were.”
Alyosha smirked. “Tell that to the KGB.” He replaced the secret picture and took a silver-framed photo down from the shelf. “This is my father as a young navy captain.” There was the square-jawed man again, steely blue eyes, in navy whites and a captain’s cap with a gold insignia.
“Do you see your parents often?” Laura asked.
Alyosha shook his head. “My mother died a few years ago. And my father isn’t speaking to me.” He put the photo back on the shelf and sat down to pour out the tea. Laura sat beside him on the bed. She waited for an explanation, but he only smiled wryly and added, “Long story. Let’s eat.”
He’d made a plate of little open-faced sandwiches: tuna, sardines, a dollop of caviar on a thick bed of butter. The black bread was tangy and chewy. While she tasted the caviar, he put on a record. “Do you like Neil Young?”
“I love him.”
“So do I. He is my favorite American rock musician, the greatest.”
The warm, rich, funky-sad music filled the room. Alyosha’s hand brushed her forearm as he reached for the samovar. The fine hairs near her wrist rose as if pulled by a magnet. She suppressed a shiver and sipped her tea.
They sat quietly listening while Neil sang about how only love can break your heart. “I was whistling this song the other day,” Laura said, as if that had been some kind of premonition. Her heartbeat grew heavier, thudding in her chest along with the music. There was an electric tension in the air, magnetizing the foot of space between them so that she felt she couldn’t have pulled away from him if she’d wanted to. And she didn’t want to.
She wanted to kiss him.
This feeling caught her off guard. She hadn’t come to his apartment, as suggestive as that might have sounded, with theintention of kissing anyone. She hardly knew him. She had no idea if he liked her that way.
But there it was. The feeling. Wanting to kiss. Him.
She dared to shift her head the quarter turn it took to face him. His profile was dramatic, almost Roman: a long straight nose, curving lips, deep-set eyes. She was glad he’d shaved off the mustache.
Now his head turned, too. Only inches separated their faces. She felt the faintest trace of his breath on her lips. If she leaned forward just a little bit, her lips would touch his….
Bzzzzt.
The sound jolted both of them, a quick intake of breath, their
Laura had seen pictures of her own parents from this same period — her mother in saddle shoes on a swing with her best friend, her father posing outside his parents’ drugstore, a lollipop in his hand — but this looked like a different century, a different universe. Alyosha’s father and grandparents looked like refugees, which, in a way, they were. Leningrad was under siege by the Germans at that time, and people were starving and dying by the thousands.
Alyosha plucked an even older photo out from behind this picture. “I hide this picture here,” he whispered. “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
The older picture showed three pampered children in rich satin clothes — two boys and a girl with a little white dog on her lap — posing on a velvet couch before a painting of a man on a horse. “This is my grandmother, my father’s mother, as a little girl, with her brothers, before the revolution. Around 1915, I guess. Their father was a merchant. He was killed by the Bolsheviks a few years later and their house was taken by the government and divided into tiny apartments. Grandmother’s brothers were killed as well. They let Grandmother live because she pretended to be the family maid.”
Laura took the picture from him and stared at it. “That is so sad. But why do you hide the picture?”
“It’s not good to have aristocratic roots. You know that.”
“But you can’t help what your grandparents and great-grandparents were.”
Alyosha smirked. “Tell that to the KGB.” He replaced the secret picture and took a silver-framed photo down from the shelf. “This is my father as a young navy captain.” There was the square-jawed man again, steely blue eyes, in navy whites and a captain’s cap with a gold insignia.
“Do you see your parents often?” Laura asked.
Alyosha shook his head. “My mother died a few years ago. And my father isn’t speaking to me.” He put the photo back on the shelf and sat down to pour out the tea. Laura sat beside him on the bed. She waited for an explanation, but he only smiled wryly and added, “Long story. Let’s eat.”
He’d made a plate of little open-faced sandwiches: tuna, sardines, a dollop of caviar on a thick bed of butter. The black bread was tangy and chewy. While she tasted the caviar, he put on a record. “Do you like Neil Young?”
“I love him.”
“So do I. He is my favorite American rock musician, the greatest.”
The warm, rich, funky-sad music filled the room. Alyosha’s hand brushed her forearm as he reached for the samovar. The fine hairs near her wrist rose as if pulled by a magnet. She suppressed a shiver and sipped her tea.
They sat quietly listening while Neil sang about how only love can break your heart. “I was whistling this song the other day,” Laura said, as if that had been some kind of premonition. Her heartbeat grew heavier, thudding in her chest along with the music. There was an electric tension in the air, magnetizing the foot of space between them so that she felt she couldn’t have pulled away from him if she’d wanted to. And she didn’t want to.
She wanted to kiss him.
This feeling caught her off guard. She hadn’t come to his apartment, as suggestive as that might have sounded, with theintention of kissing anyone. She hardly knew him. She had no idea if he liked her that way.
But there it was. The feeling. Wanting to kiss. Him.
She dared to shift her head the quarter turn it took to face him. His profile was dramatic, almost Roman: a long straight nose, curving lips, deep-set eyes. She was glad he’d shaved off the mustache.
Now his head turned, too. Only inches separated their faces. She felt the faintest trace of his breath on her lips. If she leaned forward just a little bit, her lips would touch his….
Bzzzzt.
The sound jolted both of them, a quick intake of breath, their
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