The Ice Swan полностью

Mrs. Varjensky slurped her tea. “Now. Husband. That bigger problem.” A bigger problem than wielding a butcher’s knife? “Why you no with him?”

Svetlana stared down into her brew. Maybe if she stared hard enough an easy answer would bubble to the surface. “I . . . He has official medical business to see to.”

“No care. Why you no go with him? Husband wife together. Always.”

“It’s not always possible to be together. Sometimes circumstances force you apart. Circumstances you didn’t expect, and once they’ve come you have no idea how to recover what was lost.”

“Nothing lost to those wishing in finding it.”

“It’s not that I do not wish to find it. Rather, I do not know if I can.” Perhaps it was the warmth of the fire, or the smell of baking bread. Perhaps it was the comfort of the Russian tea, or the old woman’s kind voice, but Svetlana could no longer suppress the well of hurt in her heart. A tear slipped down her cheek. “He lied to me, babushka.”

“How?”

“Something happened to him that he decided I was better off not knowing. I only discovered the truth by accident. He claims he was going to tell me before and that he only sought to protect me. He wanted to try to right the wrong first. The trust between us has been broken by his betrayal.”

Mrs. Varjensky let out a long cackle until tears wedged into the creases on her face. An unexpected response for the second time that evening. Were the midnight kitchen vapors upsetting her mental faculties? She swiped at the tears with the edge of her shawl. Wynn’s matryoshka doll brooch was pinned above her heart. “Pride is stubbornness of youth.”

“Trust is paramount in a relationship.”

“So forgiveness.” Pushing her cup aside, she laid a wrinkled hand over Svetlana’s. It was worn with blue veins crisscrossing the tissue-thin skin, yet it pulsed with warmth. “Why he lie? Protect you. This come from love. Men none smart in proving love, but love all same.”

“He should have told me his troubles from the beginning. I could have helped him. Supported him so that he wouldn’t be forced to carry the burden alone.” More tears came. “I’ve never been one for trusting. Trusting involves relying on others, and more times than not they prove unequal to the task. Then Wynn came along. He softens me in ways I never believed existed. Until him, I was buried under the misunderstanding that I am difficult to love, but he’s made it appear effortless. I can simply be with him.”

“One time he let down, you cut him out.” Mrs. Varjensky made a ratcheting sound like ice breaking. “You have mistake. He have mistake. All us make mistake. Holding on to mistake is pride. Pride enemy to love.”

Love. A four-letter notion allotted to poetry and music, yet its substance poured through the very threads of human existence. The poets dreamed of it, the scholars philosophized on its merits, the operas sang of it, and kingdoms rose and fell for it. She didn’t want it to be a concept touted onstage for the amusement of audiences; she wanted it to reside within her. Within Wynn. Perhaps these threads were divided among lovers so that when they met the cords might become whole. If she were to look inside herself, would she find the cord whole? Yes, she believed she would. But she might also find it dangerously close to unraveling.

“Him you love?”

The truth refused denial under the old woman’s probing gaze. Svetlana nodded, gaining strength with the small admission. “Yes.”

“He love you?”

“He’s told me so.” From the very beginning of their marriage he’d told her how much he cared for her. He’d given her honesty when she craved it yet was too scared to accept it.

“All that matters. Love not something happens. Love builds little each day. Must care for, put effort. If no, love burn out. Let me tell wisdom: nothing colder than ashes after fire of love gone. We Russians too long cold.”

Laughing, Svetlana dabbed the tears from her cheeks with her robe’s lacey cuff. “I thought we were proud of that fact.”

“Shh. No one need know truth. Secret we all cold. This why we need men keep us warm. Where yours?”

“Glasgow.”

“That where you need be.”

“But what if—”

“If, if, if. Questions for fools. You no fool. You kind heart admit or no.” Wriggling off the stool, Mrs. Varjensky pulled the tray of baked vareniki out of the oven and set it on the table. A delicious whiff steamed off the golden puffs.

“You’re wrong, babushka. My heart is mine no longer. Wynn took it long ago. I just didn’t realize it until now.” He had taken her heart over so completely that Svetlana was almost afraid to look further into herself lest she discover how little of herself was still joined to it.

“Go where heart is.”