Ilil Arbel: Madame Koska and the Imperial Brooch

“Ladies, I vill not be back in time to close up when the day is over, I have another meeting directly after the one with Lady Victoria. Miss Saltykov, vould you kindly close up and then drop the key in the mailbox in my apartment upstairs?” She disengaged the key from her chatelaine.

“Certainly, Madame Koska,” said Natalya, looking up from the blue-green, semi-sheer silk sleeve she was beading and holding her hand out to take the key. Madame Koska looked at the sleeve. “How utterly lovely, Miss Saltykov. These arabesques you are embroidering are simply flawless.” Natalya flushed with pleasure as the other women bent to look.

“Your skill is incredible, Miss Saltykov,” said one of them. “I wish I could bead like you. Why, these beads look like emeralds, the way you placed them against the silver thread…” Horribly embarrassed but happy, Natalya murmured that she would be happy to show her friends any little tricks they needed. Madame Koska smiled at everyone and then went to her office to get ready for her meeting with Lady Victoria Ashton-Smith, who was staying at her town house in London.

The meeting went very well, and all the little details were discussed. Lady Victoria wanted a dark crimson velvet dress, flowing in the newest style, shorter in front and longer in the back, and decorated with panels of beading and embroidery on the bodice. She would look very well in it, thought Madame Koska; it would set off her bobbed dark hair and pale complexion. They fixed a time for the first visit, to have the measurements taken, Madame Koska delicately mentioned the fee, which was graciously agreed to, and then took her leave, well pleased with her afternoon work. She went out and not even glancing at the bus she was accustomed to take, signaled a cab. Consulting a piece of paper she took out of her handbag, she told the address to the driver and they rolled away.

The cab stopped in a modest, unfashionable part of town. The houses had a certain atmosphere of faded glory, not exactly shabby but no longer first class. Still, they retained a special kind of charm that comes from older and mellower architecture. Madame Koska paid the driver and walked to the front door. Clearly Mr. Korolenko was not wealthy, but at least he lived in respectable circumstances. She rang the bell, and a woman wrapped in a big floral apron opened it. “Yes?” she said curtly, staring at Madame Koska’s elegant coat and hat.

“I am here to see Mr. Korolenko,” said Madame Koska.

“Second floor, on the right,” said the woman and stood aside. Madame Koska climbed the steep stairs. The stairway was badly lit, a slight odor of cooking lingered in the air, and from the apartment on the left she could hear squeaky voices of children playing or fighting. Madame Koska knocked on the door of the apartment on the right of the little landing and waited. No one came, but she heard a piano being played inside and assumed the player could not hear her. She waited for a break in the music and knocked again. This time the door was opened instantly by a tall, middle-aged man wearing a shabby but well-cut tweed suit. “I am Madame Koska,” she said. “Ve talked earlier.”

“Oh yes, come in, Madame,” said the man and allowed her to pass in front of him in. The apartment had no foyer, and the door led directly into the drawing room. It was starkly furnished, but spacious, clean and neat. “Do sit down, Madame Koska,” said Mr. Korolenko, and pointed to the sofa. “I understand you want to learn Russian. I am a bit baffled since the way you speak, and your accent, are so very Russian already.”

“So Countess Golitsyn did not explain my situation?” asked Madame Koska.

“She said that you need to learn Russian as quickly as possible, and that I must be very diplomatic about it and not say a word to anyone.”

“Yes, exactly,” said Madame Koska. “And you vere not curious as to vhy?”

“Madame Koska, I don’t ask questions. I need to earn my living, and people learn languages for many reasons, some of them secret. If something happens to them, the less I know, usually, the better.”

Madame Koska nodded. She appreciated such discretion in her acquaintance. This man could be valuable… “You speak like an Englishman,” she said. “I do not detect any foreign accent. And yet your name is Russian. Vhat are you?”

“I am Russian. But being a linguist, I can usually speak with a clean pronunciation in all the languages I know. As for English, it is particularly easy for me. I learned it from my first tutor, an Englishman, at a very young age.”

“I imagine you held important positions in Russia, but here you vork as a language teacher?”

“What can you do, Madame Koska? One must survive. After the Revolution, men in my position cannot afford to be proud… but yes, I was a professor in Moscow. I am not of the nobility, but rather, upper class, professional family. We had to flee because of our connections with the nobility.”

Madame Koska drummed her fingernails on the sofa’s arm. “Yes,” she said. “I see.”

“You are uncomfortable about something, I can see that,” said Mr. Korolenko. “What is bothering you, Madame Koska?”

For the first time, Madame Koska really looked at him. He was a handsome man, tall, broad-shouldered, with strong features and dark brown eyes, probably in his mid-fifties. He looked intelligent and trustworthy. She decided to proceed.

“Yes, this is true, I am not comfortable revealing my secret to a stranger,” she said, “but I have no choice. You see, Mr. Korolenko, I am not Russian; it is all a façade. But my clients here must believe I am Russian, and unlike those in Paris, many of them vill vant to speak Russian to me. Their French is perfect, but they are not always comfortable with English, and vhen they meet another Russian, they vill revert to speaking their own language. So I must learn Russian as fast as possible.”

“But why did you pretend to be Russian in the first place? And if it was necessary, why not pretend to be French?”

“I started vorking in Paris with my husband, and he was Russian… it’s a long story, I’ll tell you some day. But the important thing is, can you do it? Can you teach me Russian, good enough to speak like a native, and do it in secret?”

“Of course I can. I developed a system of conversational studies that will get you speaking in a short time, but just in case, I will also teach you reading and writing. That might take a little longer but it would be less of a rush.”

“This is a good plan,” said Madame Koska.

“Where would you like me to meet you for the lessons?” asked Mr. Korolenko.

“I vill have to come here. I can’t allow you to be seen in my business or apartment.”

“Very well, it will be quiet here and no one needs to know. Many students come here.”

“Do they meet each other on the stairs, or vait until a lesson is finished? I’d rather not meet them.”

“You never will. I always make sure there is a half hour break between students’ appointments. Many feel exactly as you do,” said Mr. Korolenko. “So, shall we say twice a week?”

They settled on the terms and Madame Koska felt that he charged too little. She did not try to dissuade him from undercharging her, she rather fancied a bargain for herself, but the thought crossed her mind that she must talk to him about raising his fees. But not before they became friends, or it might offend him.

It was eveningwhen Madame Koska returned home. Normally she would stop downstairs at the atelier, but since she did not have the key in her bag, having given it to Natalya, it would have meant going upstairs to her apartment, getting the key from her mail box, and going down again. She did not have anything pressing to do there. After all, writing Lady Victoria’s order in the books could be done the next day, and she felt rather tired. She took the key from the mail box and threw it in her bag. Deciding to just have some light supper and go to bed early, she changed into one of her elegant dressing gowns, which she always made herself since no one really knew how to set in the long, soft bat-wing sleeves, and wrapping herself in its silky warmth, decided to soak in a hot, lazy bath. Running the water gently over the Muguet de Bois bath oil beads she favoured so as to slowly extract all their scent, Madame Koska thought she heard some strange knocking sounds from somewhere. But they soon stopped and she relaxed into the warm water, thinking about the new collection she planned on creating and showing soon.