He wrote to Nicholas and Marta telling them both he had decided not to publish, and was pleased to receive a postcard from Nicholas. It had a picture on the front of some kids playing volleyball on a beach and it read ‘Thanks for coming over to see me, Dad.’ That was all, but it was nice.
Six months later, Nicholas died of cirrhosis of the liver. Pattie wrote to tell Dmitri since there was no phone at the cabin and she’d been unable to reach him at the house in Albany. At last his boy was at peace, after a tortured life. Dmitri flew to California for the funeral hoping that Marta might be there and that he’d have a chance to talk with her. Perhaps there could still be a rapprochement at this sad time. His hopes were dashed when she didn’t show up.
‘Since Rosa died Marta has never been able to deal with anything emotionally challenging,’ Pattie told him. ‘She pulls down the shutters and pretends nothing is wrong. I’m sorry to say it but I don’t think she’ll ever change.’
‘Is she happy?’ Dmitri asked.
Pattie shrugged. ‘I don’t think her marriage is perfect. She once told me that Stanley has a wandering eye. I guess that makes it even harder for her to forgive you. But she adores her daughter. Elizabeth is the centre of her life.’
When he got back to Albany, Dmitri rewrote his will, leaving enough for Tatiana, should she outlive him, and the remainder of his estate to whichever of his descendants came forward to claim it. Perhaps his little granddaughter would come to find him one day. He surely hoped so.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Lake Akanabee, New York State, February 1975
Dmitri celebrated his eightieth birthday at the cabin with Tatiana. She made his favourite Russian Pashka, a dessert similar to the Americans’ cheesecake, and stuck a candle in the top that dripped wax down the side while he struggled to find the breath to blow it out. They lived very simply now, eating vegetables she had grown in the garden around the cabin and the occasional fish he caught from the end of the dock (although in truth he never had much patience for fishing). They still commuted between there and the Albany cottage but spent most of their time at the lake, keeping the stove stocked with firewood on the cold days and talking, always talking.
They joked that if they were to live another twenty years, they would never run out of conversation. They discussed religion and philosophy and tried to agree upon the ideal political system; they fretted over news reports of the Vietnam War, worried about whether America was right to get involved; they talked about books and music and remembered theatrical productions they had seen back in St Petersburg before the First World War; they talked about people they had known, and they speculated on what Tatiana’s brother and sisters might have been like had they lived. Each expressed whatever was on his or her mind at the moment and it flowed back and forth in a fast-moving current of companionship. If they woke at night when the wind blew hard outside and rain hammered on the cabin’s tin roof, they resumed the conversation they’d been having earlier.
In his head Dmitri sometimes compared the two women he had loved. Sex had never been especially important in his relationship with Tatiana; Rosa had been much more enthusiastic in that department, and she had brought him great pleasure with her skills. There had never been the meeting of the minds he had with Tatiana, though. When you were in your eighties, that became most important. To feel that another human being truly understood the core of you and loved what they saw, while you felt the same about them – that was the best feeling of all. In some ways, he thought, it was the highest achievement of humanity. He had failed in all his other close relationships but at least he got the most important one right.
One spring day he drove to the store in Indian Lake – slowly, peering through the windshield because his glasses were not strong enough and the road appeared as a blur. He bought a few items then on the way back remembered he had forgotten tea, the one thing Tatiana had expressly asked for, so he turned round to get some.
When he drove down the track and the cabin came into view, he saw Tatiana lying on the soil and his first thought was that she must have lost an earring. Trina was sitting nearby, whining. He got out of the car and hobbled towards Tatiana.
‘Angel?’ he called. ‘Is everything OK?’
When she didn’t reply, he limped across and sank to his knees, turning her onto her back. She wasn’t breathing. Gulping back a sob, he put an ear to her chest but couldn’t hear a heartbeat. He had never given artificial respiration but he’d read about it in a magazine so he tried frantically pressing down on her chest and blowing into her mouth. All the time he knew, deep inside, that she had gone. He was simply delaying the moment when he must accept it. The expression on her face was calm. At least she had not felt any pain.
When he had tried to revive her for several minutes without getting any response, Dmitri gathered her in his arms and howled, the sound echoing across the lake. He howled again and again. ‘Don’t go, Tatiana, don’t go, come back, don’t do this to me.’ He cried out loud, tears spilling as he rocked her back and forwards, trying to shake her out of death’s grip. The pain was so appalling he thought he must be dying too and he looked up at the sky and prayed that God would take him now. ‘You don’t understand. I can’t be without her. I can’t survive.’
A light rain began to fall but still Dmitri sat there, holding her, stroking her hair, kissing her cold lips, squeezing her to see if there was one ounce of life left. ‘Can you still hear me, darling? If you can, please try to come back. Oh, you must come back to me. I can’t bear it.’ Her face was changing, tightening in death. The lips were pale and thin, her cheeks alabaster.
Dmitri knew he should call the police. They would come and take her away to an undertaker’s. Perhaps there would be an autopsy to establish the cause of death. What did that matter to him? She was gone and he would never find her again if he searched the world over. I’ll keep her with me a little longer, he thought. Just a while.
The sun had started to lower in the skies when he decided that he did not want anyone to take her away, not ever. He would keep her with him at the cabin. No one need know. He would have to work fast because he couldn’t risk someone coming by and finding them like this. He lifted her head off his lap and rose with great difficulty, his hips and knees locked in place from sitting too long. Trina followed as he staggered to the cabin for his tools and some planks of wood he had bought for repairing the porch. Along with a couple of wooden boxes they used for storage, there would be just enough for a makeshift coffin.
He wasn’t a proficient carpenter but he managed to fashion a coffin of a size that would accommodate her. The edges were uneven, the angles askew, but it would do. He hobbled around looking for the perfect spot. Just to the west of the cabin there was a grassy bank between the silver birch trees, with a view out across the lake. The ground was malleable beneath his spade and the moon came out as he worked. He didn’t stop to eat or drink, not once, because he was scared he might collapse and be unable to finish. His back was aching, his hips and knees screeching complaint, and he was wheezing for breath in the cold night air, but he kept going, deeper and deeper. He welcomed the work because it stopped him thinking about the infinite vastness of his loss.
Tatiana lay on her back, looking more beautiful than ever, the moonlight glowing on her skin, her eyes closed as though she was simply asleep. He hoped she would approve of what he was doing.