Tom Bradby: The White Russian

Sitting here this morning, Ruzsky felt as though he had never been away. Had he been inclined by nature to self-pity, the scene would almost have been poignant, since the last time he had sat here, before his fall from grace three years ago, he had felt happier than at any point since the early days of his childhood.

It had mostly been because of her. Instinctively, Ruzsky touched the letter in his jacket pocket. Like Michael, Maria would still be sleeping.

“It hasn’t changed,” Pavel said, smiling, as Ruzsky looked around him.

“Clientele still as shabby as ever.”

“It’s no place for a prince,” Pavel went on, stretching. “Dear me, no.”

Ruzsky smiled too. It had been a long-standing joke between them. The Ruzskys drew a continuous line of service and loyalty to Tsar and Empire stretching back more than a hundred and fifty years to the reign of Peter the Great. The eldest son always served in the Empire’s most prestigious infantry regiment, the Preobrazhensky Guards. Ruzsky’s decision to shun the Guards and, as a result of a childhood passion for Sherlock Holmes, enter the service of the St. Petersburg Police Department-as lowly an occupation for a man of high birth as it was possible to imagine-had provoked a final severance of any form of connection with his father.

Ruzsky looked at Pavel. With his drooping mustache and lugubrious expression, he seemed to have aged dramatically these past three years.

Ruzsky made a sudden decision and stood. “I’ll see you back in the office.”

“Where are you going?”

“I won’t be long. Make sure Sarlov is in,” he said, referring to the medical examiner.

In the street outside, Ruzsky walked at first, but then gathered speed, so that by the time he reached Millionnaya Ulitsa, he was running.

His father’s home was one of the most beautiful on the street. It was four stories high, not including the attic or the basement. To the left of the steps leading up to the doorway was the yard in which all of the family’s transportation was kept. Ruzsky watched a servant oiling the runners of one of his father’s upended sleds, with its distinctive green and gold livery.

He climbed the steps and knocked. The door was opened, but not by Ivan, the family’s old butler.

Ruzsky stared at the young man before him. He was tall and thin, handsome but for his pimples, with wavy dark hair curling over his collar. He wore the red and gold uniform of his father’s house.

“Can I help you, sir?”

It took Ruzsky a few moments to get over the shock of not being recognized in his own home. “Where’s Ivan?”

“Ivan is not here. And you are?”

“I’m the son of the house,” Ruzsky said as he walked forward into the hallway. He stopped, realized his manner had been churlish, and offered his hand. “I apologize, I’m Sandro.”

“Master Sandro, sir, yes.” The young man’s handshake was firm. “I’m Peter. I believe your father is out.”

“I’m here to see my son.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like me to find the boy?”

Ruzsky forced himself to smile. “I will be all right, thank you.”

“Of course. New Year, New Happiness.”

“And the same to you.”

The young man shut the door and withdrew discreetly, down the wooden stairs toward the kitchen in the basement.

Ruzsky stood for a moment in the semidarkness of the hallway. He realized he had been holding his breath.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and slowly exhaled. Ahead of him was a fir tree, decorated for Christmas. He took a pace closer and touched one of the round pink and white gingerbreads his mother had always instructed the servants to bake. The decorations were the ones she had bought at Peto’s all those years ago: tiny sedan chairs, violins, bears, monkeys, and thin candles in tin candlesticks. Ruzsky imagined Michael helping his grandfather and the servants decorate the tree. He thought of the excitement that would have lit up his son’s face.

He’d heard that Christmas trees had been banned as too Germanic, but the rule clearly did not apply to such high servants of the Tsar.

The hall was wide, leading onto the formal rooms to his right and left. His father’s study and the winter room were at the back, before the stairs leading down to the kitchen. The hall was dominated on one side by a giant gilt-edged mirror above an ornate chestnut dresser, and on the other by a dark tapestry hanging from a long metal pole. There was an iron coat stand in the corner. Beside it, on top of a wooden pillar, was a bust of Ruzsky’s grandfather. In the style of Roman emperors, his brother Dmitri had always said, and with similar pretensions to grandeur.

Next to it was a portrait of their mother, with a cold smile playing at the corner of her lips. Ruzsky stared at it for a moment.

The memory it triggered was of the scene in this hallway on the day Ruzsky had begun as a cadet at the Corps des Pages-the last time he had seen her. Standing by the door in the uniform of the school, next to his father, he had raised his hand to her to say goodbye and she had failed to lift her own in response.

He had hesitated, waiting for something more, his face reddening as he realized that nothing would be forthcoming.

The door to the drawing room was open and Ruzsky walked through it, conscious of the noise of his footsteps on the wooden floor. This room, too, was in semidarkness. His father forbade the servants from lighting a fire until after four in the afternoon, even in the depths of winter.

It had been redecorated since Ruzsky’s last visit, with a rich red wallpaper that matched the Persian rugs. On the wall closest to him a curved saber hung below a painting of a mountain from the northern part of the Hindu Kush. Next to the saber was a tall wooden table upon which stood an elaborate, bejeweled box, and on the wall above that, portraits of his two brothers.

His mother had wanted a society artist, but his father had chosen someone cheaper and less fashionable. Ruzsky could no longer even remember the man’s name, although he had forced them all to sit for long enough.

Ruzsky pulled back the curtain, to allow in a little more natural light. The man had caught none of Dmitri’s charm, but the portrait of Ilya-Ilusha as he had been known to them all-had greater warmth, capturing perfectly his impish grin.

Ruzsky wondered what his father had done with his own portrait. Even though it had been many years since it had hung alongside the others, its absence still caused him pain. It was as if he did not exist.

He let the curtain fall, haunted by the resemblance between Ilya and Michael. Or was it just that his own son had almost reached the age at which Ilusha had been taken from them?

Ruzsky turned around and walked swiftly from the room and through the hallway. He glanced out of the rear window and caught sight of his son in the garden.

Michael was on his own. He had built a wall of snow and behind it assembled a small mound of snowballs.

Ruzsky watched as his son came back behind the wall, picked up the first missile, and hurled it toward its target. He missed, so repeated the exercise with the second and then with all the others, ducking down between each throw, as if dodging gunfire.

When he had finished, Michael mounted an imaginary horse and rode out beyond his rampart.

He dismounted and began to run through the small garden, with his arms outstretched. He was a plane, or perhaps a bird. He was alone in his world.

Michael’s isolation reminded Ruzsky of his own in the years after Ilusha’s death.

He rested his forehead against the window and the glass slowly misted up with the warmth of his breath. How the months had dragged since he’d last set eyes upon his son.