He wheezed and bounced a little, and from his excitement, I guessed she had nice tits too. He pointed to the terrace door. “213.”
“Danke,” I said, moving towards the door. He mumbled something—either an invitation or a come-on, I couldn’t hear which—and snaked a hand out to pat my ass as I passed.
“I could break your neck with a toothpick,” I told him in English. “Cool it, Adolf.”
I slipped through the terrace door into a sort of breakfast room. It was empty, but the smell of coffee and incontinence pants hung in the air, overlaid with the lingering smell of an expensive commercial air freshener. I sniffed deeply. Freesia, I decided. I eased into the hall where the air was cooler. A wide wooden staircase wound upwards. Leading off the hall were half a dozen doors and an old-fashioned elevator cage. From the rattling, I guessed Helen and the others were currently inside the lift, on their way to tour a guest room. I’djust have to take my chances and hope they weren’t headed to the same floor.
I took the stairs two at a time since nobody was around. The floors were numbered European style—ground on the level where we’d entered, the first floor above, and the second one higher still. I wasn’t surprised that Auntie Evgenia had bagged a room at the top. The views would be best up there.
Number 213 was near the stairs, and as I moved across the wide, carpeted corridor, I heard the lift stopping on the floor below. I could just make out Helen’s voice, sharp and a little annoyed as she spoke. Good. A bit of visible irritation out of a potential client would keep their guide focused on making them happy and less likely to notice anything I might get up to.
I paused with my ear to the door. I couldn’t hear anything, but the carpets were thick and the door was heavy oak. I pushed it open a crack and peered inside. The room was furnished like a posh hotel, with floral wallpaper and what looked like either very good antiques orveryexpensive reproductions. There was even a fireplace, tiny and unlit, with a mantel of green marble carved into Art Nouveau curves. A long window was framed by chintz curtains and I was right; the view was spectacular—long rolling hills fringed with thick pine forests and in the distance the peak of an alp just to remind you where you were. A bed had been positioned to make the most of it, and that bed was the only odd note in the room. It was a proper piece of hospital equipment, fitted with all the levers and switches, but it had been made up with flowered sheets and a satin quilt. To make it cozier, I guessed.Propped up against the pillows was a woman in a jade green velvet bed jacket. I nearly had a heart attack when I realized she was staring directly at me.
“Are you coming in?” She addressed me in German, but I had an idea.
“May I?” I inquired in politely old-fashioned Russian.
Her eyes lit up and she gestured. “You are Russian?”
I shrugged as I closed the door behind me. “For today I am. I am visiting my uncle Feodor, and he said there was another Russian here.”
She frowned. “Feodor? I do not know him.”
Considering the fact that I had just invented him, I was certain she didn’t. But the place was big and it was an old folks’ home; there was bound to be some turnover.
“He’s new,” I said, coming near to the bed. On the nightstand was a crystal pitcher of orange juice with a small glass. There was a remote control for a television that must be hidden somewhere—probably behind a painting of a depressed clown that would haunt my dreams—but no other personal effects, no address book or letters. The only other decorative item was a large vase of lilies. Some had dropped their pollen, staining the creamy marble top of the nightstand. It was the sole bit of untidiness I’d seen since I had arrived.
“Those are lovely,” I said. Actually, I hated lilies. To me they always smelled like funeral homes, but she smiled.
“From my nephew, Pasha,” she said with a little purr. There was no grief there, only pride, and I realized suddenly that she had no idea he was currently reposing in a mortuary somewhere in England.
“Does he visit often?” I asked.
She shook her head. “He is a very important and busy man of international affairs.”
International affairs? Either that was code these days for club drugs and art smuggling, or Auntie Evgenia didn’t know the illegalities Pasha dabbled in.
“But he sends me flowers. Expensive ones,” she added loftily. “He comes every year for my birthday in August.” Her face puckered a little. “I wish he would marry. It is not good for a man to be alone.” She gestured towards the mantelpiece. “There is a photograph of him. He is a handsome boy. You will see.”
I went to look. In pride of place on the mantel was a heavy silver frame, the kind you see only in antiques stores or the most exclusive French flea markets. It was engraved with a Cyrillic monogram in elegant script. The picture inside was Pasha in one of his superbly tailored English suits, an arm around his teddy bear. I wondered if they’d send it to Aunt Evgenia along with his suits.
“Nice bear,” I said, returning the frame to its place. There were a few other pictures on the mantelpiece, arranged with military precision in order of size. One was a double portrait of two identical young women facing one another. They were wearing matching full white satin dresses, each holding an armful of creamy roses. Evgenia and Irina, Pasha’s mother, I guessed.
“My sister and I at our coming out,” Evgenia told me proudly. “There was a ball at the George V in Paris. Very exclusive, you understand.”
Next to the debut portrait was another photograph of them together, this time with one dressed in a fluffy cloud of white organza with her sister in green tulle.
“Her wedding,” she said in a distinctly cooler tone. I noticed there was no image of Boris Lazarov anywhere in sight. Instead, there were portraits of the two sisters and several of Irina’s children, Pasha and his little sister, Galina. Assorted other pictures filled in the spaces between the larger studio portraits—some candid yachting photos, family picnics, even a distinctly tsarist-looking one that seemed to have been taken at an imperial function in St. Petersburg. The good old days for the Dashkovs, I guessed. They must have had a ball, trampling on serfs and organizing pogroms.
I moved on, and the last photo in the line caught my attention. It was one of the pictures taken on a boat, probably Pasha’s, given the way he was preening. In the background was a woman, not even a whole woman, just a slender profile. There was something elusive about her, as if the photo had been snapped right as she was turning away from the camera and that she’d done so on purpose. Her hair had whipped across her features, obscuring most of her face, but I thought I detected a resemblance to Pasha. The idea that crept into my mind was one I didn’t want to consider, but I had to know.
I carried the frame to Evgenia’s bedside. “Who is this?”
She peered. “I don’t know her.” She looked up at me, blinking hard, her expression suddenly blank. “Who are you?”
The whole time I’d been in her room, she had been curious but not suspicious. Now she looked at me with a little fear, as if she had just awakened in a room full of strangers.
“I am nobody,” I told her. “Just a friend passing by.” I made sure to keep my voice soft and back up a step so she wouldn’t feel threatened.