Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Musical Theme: The Seasons, Op. 67, Autumn: Adagio, by Alexander Glazunov

LATE JANUARY, 1919, IRKUTSK

Ned stood outside the dormitory at the same Irkutsk girls’ school where he and Staff Captain Ivashov had slept the last time they visited the Transbaikalian capital. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to spend more than a few nights here this time, as the train carrying the wireless gear was due to arrive within a day or two. To stay warm, he stomped his feet and rubbed his gloved hands together while waiting for Ivashov to arrive with a hired sleigh for the trip to the banker Kostrov’s house on Amursky Avenue. Whether by coincidence or design, Ivashov had called on Kostrov at his office earlier that day and the Russian had insisted that the two officers dine with him the same evening. In their honor, he promised them the best meal available anywhere in Irkutsk, and hinted that he might have a surprise that would make their evening especially enjoyable.

Ivashov arrived promptly in a two-horse sleigh, whereupon Ned climbed aboard and covered himself in the furs and blankets on hand to keep him warm during the short ride across town. It was well past four o’clock in the afternoon, the hour when electric globes lit up on lampposts along Irkutsk’s major arteries. The sun had set a few minutes earlier, leaving the city wrapped in a rosy haze. The snow scrunched crisply under the sleigh’s runners as they passed one of the city’s electric power stations, where Ned could see through grimy windows the giant shadows of tirelessly turning iron flywheels. Further on, in a squalid riverside neighborhood, they rode past dimly lit shops and cafés where coffee, beer, spirits and cheap Chinese opium were served up until late in the night.

It was inhumanly cold. Despite the furs, Ned’s mouth and cheeks soon grew numb and the two men rode in silence through the shadowy streets of Irkutsk. The place seemed nearly deserted as compared with Omsk, where the streets teemed with refugees at all hours. As the sleigh turned the corner onto Amursky Avenue, Ned caught sight of Kirill Matveyevich Kostrov in a sleek tarantass[18] sleigh parked outside his two-story brick mansion. Kostrov was exchanging words with a tall young man on horseback who, upon seeing the sleigh approach, gave it a searching look, nodded to the banker and promptly headed off in the opposite direction.

After reaching the house and exchanging greetings with Kostrov, Ned asked who the young rider might be. Kostrov brightened at the question.

“His name is Boris Viktorovich Borisov and he is to be our dinner guest tonight,” the banker replied. “And a fine young fellow he is! Son of a prosperous miller from Verkhne-Udinsk and until recently an avid suitor of my niece, Zhanna.”

At this, Ned felt a twinge of what he knew could only be jealousy and the feeling annoyed him. Had he not overcome his fixation upon this girl? Not even after having found satisfaction with a lovely woman of his own age?

“Until recently a suitor, you say?” Ivashov interjected with a raised eyebrow. The staff captain appeared amused, but by no stretch jealous, at the news.

“Alas, yes,” Kostrov replied. “Boris and Zhanna were childhood friends and, for the longest time, he was badly smitten with her. But Zhanna never returned his interest. What’s more, her father opposed the match. Yet, oddly enough, last month Stepan Petrovich lifted his objection. Father Timofey served as intermediary between the families and a wedding was expected this spring.”

“Then they are engaged after all?” Ned asked, surprised that Zhanna would give up the mission to Omsk that she had seemed so intent upon pursuing. The idea irritated him, though he knew it shouldn’t have.

“No, as I said,” Kostrov continued with a bemused smile, “Boris is a former suitor now, though still a friend. What I find curious is that, despite Zhanna’s rejection, the boy seems more devoted to her than ever. What strange turns young love can take!”

Ned felt an odd sense of relief. And in that moment Zhanna’s image appeared to him as clear as ever, though he hadn’t allowed himself to think of her in weeks.

“And what of Zhanna? What are her plans now?” Ned went on, recalling Kostrov’s hint of a dinner surprise.

“You shall see soon enough for yourselves! For Zhanna has been living under my roof these past three weeks and will dine with us tonight.”

All at once Ned felt an unexpected surge of warmth at his core. Then he remembered Zhanna’s prediction that he would return to Transbaikalia before the end of winter and that she would call on him once again to escort her to Omsk. But before Ned could speak, Ivashov addressed his host with a gallant smile.

“How fortunate for you, Kirill Matveyich!” he declared with a glance toward Ned, as if Ivashev had known the girl’s situation all along. “Such lovely company you have!”