Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Dorokhin kept insisting that his guests eat until they were incapable of moving, and the men continued to down glass after glass of vodka, some as toasts and others by mere reflex, until their knees went weak. Despite having loaded up his stomach with fatty dishes early in the meal and diluted his vodka with water on occasion when no one was looking, Ned noted his words slurring, his memory for Russian words and phrases receding, and his mind becoming slowly paralyzed.

Mercifully, around that time Zhanna emerged from the kitchen with a layer cake topped with a confiture of bird cherries that grew wild along the riverbanks of Transbaikalia. While she busied herself serving a piece to each guest, her father fetched a bottle of Caucasian brandy from the sideboard, filled his empty snifter from it and passed the bottle to Neilson.

Ned waited for Zhanna to reach him and, when he was within the orbit of her scent, inhaled deeply, detecting notes of lilac over the kitchen smells permeating her apron and skirt. Upon taking a mouthful of the cake she gave him, he found it delicious, with a flavor oddly like chocolate.

On impulse, Ned rose from his seat, lifted his glass, and offered a toast.

“I shall always remember this night,” he began, “for the hospitality of our host, the beauty of the setting, the intelligent conversation of the guests, and the skill and grace of those who prepared and served us a meal beyond compare. Thank you, Stepan Petrovich—and Zhanna Stepanovna!” He offered a bow and a smile to Zhanna before raising his glass to his lips and downing the contents.

She returned his smile with a bashful look that set his heart pounding. Was it the vodka, or was he becoming infatuated with the girl? Of course, such a thing could not possibly lead anywhere, but all he knew at the moment was that he wanted to see more of Zhanna, to drink in her scent and peer into to those lavender eyes.

In the next instant, the housekeeper began clearing the table and Zhanna rose to help her. Meanwhile, Ned’s words had prompted a final long-winded toast from Dorokhin, at which the other guests rose unsteadily to their feet and polished off whatever vodka or brandy remained in their glasses. Afterward, the guests shook each other’s hands with exaggerated bonhomie and tottered out of the room.

Zhanna joined the handshaking and, as Ned filed past her, she extended a delicate hand. Upon taking it, Ned felt a small folded slip of paper pass from her palm to his and acknowledged it with a nod. Meeting his gaze, she slowly withdrew her hand and followed her father out the door.

* * *

The next morning, Ned awoke at first light with throbbing temples, an urge to vomit, and the sickly sweet odor of his own alcoholic sweat filling the small bedroom. With a mighty exertion of will, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet on the floor to stop the room from spinning. After a moment, he drew a bucket of breath as if from a deep well, rose to his feet, and shuffled across the room to where he had laid his wristwatch, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He put his head up to the mirror to take a closer look. Though his eyes were bloodshot and his skin of sallow hue, his brain and body still functioned reasonably well and he knew he would have to move quickly if he was to be on time for his rendezvous with Zhanna. He made his toilet quickly, then dressed and set out for the dining room to greet his host and explain his incongruous desire to take a stroll outdoors before breakfast. He found Dorokhin seated at the dining table with Ivashov and Father Timofey. The first two seemed in remarkably good repair for men who had imbibed so much vodka the night before. Though the aroma of fried bacon and eggs from the sideboard made Ned’s gorge rise, he put on a brave grin and poured himself a cup of strong tea at the steaming samovar.

“Eat, my young friend!” the merchant urged. “It will drive out the evil spirits.”

Timofey, who had not touched alcohol the night before, let out a hearty laugh. “And if that doesn’t work, I can offer you my priestly blessing. Or perhaps, being American, you would prefer a dose of Mesmerism? I trained in it some years ago and have often achieved good results with men in your condition.”

Ned resented being treated like a drunken Russkie. To make matters worse, he considered Mesmer and his animal magnetism[11] a complete fraud. He was considering a sharp riposte when he thought of his rendezvous with Zhanna and forced a mirthless smile.

“Thank you, Father, but I think what I need at this moment to restore my appetite is fresh air and movement. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take a short walk and rejoin you in a while.”

“I recommend the horse path behind the stables,” Dorokhin suggested as Ned downed his tea. “It runs to the edge of our property before joining the main road to town. Zhanna went off in that direction a short while ago. Perhaps you may come across her along the way.”