Эльвира Барякина: Russian Treasures

When Klim Rogov ran away from home, he took what his father cherished most—his dreams of Klim’s bright future. At the time, it felt gratifying. Did you seriously think I would want to follow in your footsteps and become a Public Prosecutor, a man who preys and profits on others people’s misfortunes? Klim had thought. No way, Father. No way.

Ten years had passed, and Klim found himself once again standing indecisively on the threshold of his family house on a balmy summer’s night. It was shabby and overgrown with lilac and ivy but still luxurious with two marble bears guarding the entrance and a white balcony protruding like the open drawer of a dresser.

There had been a time when Klim had dreamed of his triumphant return to his hometown as a successful foreign journalist whose writing had made him famous all over Argentina. But in the summer of 1917, this would not have been the safest guise to assume in Russia. Klim’s home country had been at war with Germany for three years now, its economy had collapsed, and the railroads were packed with armed deserters. Foreigners with their fancy suitcases were easy pickings for them, and Klim decided it would be wiser to melt in with the local population. He grew a layer of dark stubble, acquired a soldier’s uniform and a shabby trunk for his belongings, and arrived in Nizhny Novgorod looking more like an opera villain than an heir to a fortune.

He felt uneasy in the knowledge that the moment he knocked on the door and reentered the once forbidden family home, the life that he had cultivated for himself would become irrelevant and meaningless. Cousin Lubochka, who was renting the second floor in his father’s house, would come running to greet him, and the sleepy servants would gather at the doorway, oohing and aahing at him. The renowned traveler and journalist would once again be regarded as no more than his father’s son, and he had no idea where that was going to lead him.

Klim took a key out of his pocket, the only thing from home that had survived his extensive travels around the world.

I wonder if Father ordered the lock to be changed?

But the key turned, and the door opened noiselessly. With his heart pounding, Klim found the switch on the wall—a familiar gesture that had never faded from his memory.

Nothing had changed in the hallway. There was the same big mirror in the silver frame in patina and shoe horns and brushes on the carved shoe rack. A set of knight’s armor complete with a lance and shield was still standing in the corner. Klim lifted the visor on the helmet and peered inside. When he was a child, he had convinced himself that there would be the body of a tiny knight inside that had become shrunken and mummified over time.

There was a patter of footsteps, and a young maid with loose dark curly hair ran into the hallway.

“How did you get in here?” she asked in a frightened voice.

“I just walked through the door,” he replied with a smile. “I’m Klim Rogov, the heir.”

The girl was lovely, slim, big-eyed, and graceful, and even her dull black outfit looked good on her.

“How long have you been working here?” Klim asked.

“Oh…” She looked confused as if she didn’t know what to say. “Not that long.”

Klim walked around the hallway and examined the familiar things that had not changed at all: the hall stand with legs chewed by one of his puppies, and the carpet still bearing the traces of a “chemistry experiment” that had gone wrong.

He patted the maid on the shoulder. “Would you take care of my trunk, please?”

That’s the type of a girl that should be cuddled and tempted with sweets, he thought.

His gaze went from the open door to the library, and Klim forgot about everything else around him. He entered the room and froze, touched and overwhelmed by his memories. The light from the electric lamp was reflected in the glass doors of the bookcases and gilt spines of the books. Once, this room had been both a treasure trove and torture chamber for Klim. He remembered himself sitting in a red armchair and taking delight in the humor of Mark Twain, but it was also here, at the desk covered with ink-stained leather, that he had repeatedly copied out Latin phrases under the strict supervision of his father. Dura lex sed lex —“The law is harsh, but it is the law.”

There was still an inkwell in the form of a compass on the desk, and the map of the world still hung on the wall. The colored pins dotted all over it indicated the cities Klim had visited. Before he had escaped from home, it had been just Moscow, Saint Petersburg, and Berlin where his mother had taken him shortly before her death, but now, pins were scattered all over Persia, China, and Argentina.

It seemed Lubochka had shown Klim’s father all the letters she had received from his “prodigal son” after all.

Klim noticed his own framed photograph on the desk— goodness me! He had sent it two years ago when he had been invited to Casa Rosada, the pink presidential palace, for the first time. What emotions had been going through Father’s head when he looked at this picture? Had he remembered yelling at Klim, “You’ll end up serving hard labor! Stand up straight when I’m talking to you, you dunce.”

Klim heard the lock click softly, and he raised his head. Had he been locked in?

“Hey! Stop fooling around!” he raised his voice, but the maid didn’t answer.

Klim pulled the heavy oak door. “What if I’m the type of man to bear a grudge?” he asked even louder. “Are you not afraid that you might lose your job?”

He heard women’s voices behind the door.

“I have no idea how he got into the house!” the maid said. “Someone probably told him that you’re waiting for Mr. Rogov and that Dr. Sablin is on the night shift.”

“We must call someone,” the other woman replied.

“Do you have any weapons?”

“Well… only the knight’s lance, I think.”

Klim pounded the door with his fist. “Lubochka, open up! It is really me.”

The women behind the door gasped, the lock was opened, and a delicate lady with a porcelain complexion and a mass of wild and frizzy hair threw herself on Klim’s neck.

“I’ve missed you so much!” Lubochka said, laughing and crying and kissing him on the cheeks.

They stared at each other, hardly able to believe their eyes.

“Look at you!” Lubochka exclaimed. “A beard, a soldier’s tunic… you look like a deserter!”

Klim also couldn’t believe that the little girl he had teased as a child, calling her a “dandelion clock,” was now an elegant young lady with a wedding ring on her finger.

The vigilant maid looked at them, confused. “I’d better be going,” she said, taking a step backward.

It was well after midnight, but Klim and Lubochka were still sitting in the library and talking in much the same way they had in their childhood.

“Do you remember our parents had put us to bed,” said Klim, “and we tiptoed to the drawing-room door to eavesdrop on the adults playing the piano?”

Lubochka nodded. “Do you remember my father taking us to dance classes? You wore white knitted gloves, and you were always the very best student. And the instructor told me, ‘Mam’selle, you have perspired so much that your clothes are wringing wet. Go and change.’ I could have died of shame.”

There was so much to share! And it was so nice to see each other again and talk as if they had never been separated for the past decade.