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cheslav_olekseiLater, Cheslav would always remember it was winter when Avdotia Isaeva died.
Cheslav Oleksei remembered the Siege as an eternal winter, even though he knew intellectually that the seasons must have changed during those two and a half years. Yet when he caressed the place in his memories that knew starvation and fear and aching desperation, squatting in bombed-out buildings and eating stringy meat nearly raw, taking his knife to the veins of a man for the first time and finding fleeting solace in the slow grind of hard flesh, that place, those memories, were grey and tinged with frost.
Now, there was real snow on the ground in front of the Isaev estate.
The estate stood as always, imposing and elegant, a tall historic townhouse facing the wide road. The snow around the curb been recently plowed but was blackened with mud from the tires of many recent visitors, like the first shadow of tarnish on silver.
Cheslav drove himself, and parked his white Moskvitch in front, instead of going around to the back like usual.
The night air felt crisp, and very heavy.
His breath streamed between his lips like smoke. Seeing it made him want for a cigarette.
There were few things Cheslav Oleksei denied himself, but he denied himself a cigarette now. Instead, his hand went absently to his pocket, and felt the weight of the bottle within.
Cheslav wore a black wool coat that spanned his broad shoulders and swirled around his boots as he walked up to the townhouse's front door. Above him, most windows were darkened save for a couple that were faintly backlit with the softest of warm glows.
No other signs of life.
He allowed it was possible that no one was home.
His heavy brow knit low over his dark eyes.
Cheslav had even features, for the most part, a straight Greek nose and squared-off chin, and a long, angular jaw. It was the thick brow that glided his face with a touch of menace, and betrayed his coarse birth.
Rather, both his jaw and his massive form, tall and thick with muscle like the butcher he'd once been, and Cheslav knew it mattered as much where you'd been as where you were.
He reached for the wrought iron knocker, but then changed his mind and rang the bell, instead.
Cheslav Oleksei remembered the Siege as an eternal winter, even though he knew intellectually that the seasons must have changed during those two and a half years. Yet when he caressed the place in his memories that knew starvation and fear and aching desperation, squatting in bombed-out buildings and eating stringy meat nearly raw, taking his knife to the veins of a man for the first time and finding fleeting solace in the slow grind of hard flesh, that place, those memories, were grey and tinged with frost.
Now, there was real snow on the ground in front of the Isaev estate.
The estate stood as always, imposing and elegant, a tall historic townhouse facing the wide road. The snow around the curb been recently plowed but was blackened with mud from the tires of many recent visitors, like the first shadow of tarnish on silver.
Cheslav drove himself, and parked his white Moskvitch in front, instead of going around to the back like usual.
The night air felt crisp, and very heavy.
His breath streamed between his lips like smoke. Seeing it made him want for a cigarette.
There were few things Cheslav Oleksei denied himself, but he denied himself a cigarette now. Instead, his hand went absently to his pocket, and felt the weight of the bottle within.
Cheslav wore a black wool coat that spanned his broad shoulders and swirled around his boots as he walked up to the townhouse's front door. Above him, most windows were darkened save for a couple that were faintly backlit with the softest of warm glows.
No other signs of life.
He allowed it was possible that no one was home.
His heavy brow knit low over his dark eyes.
Cheslav had even features, for the most part, a straight Greek nose and squared-off chin, and a long, angular jaw. It was the thick brow that glided his face with a touch of menace, and betrayed his coarse birth.
Rather, both his jaw and his massive form, tall and thick with muscle like the butcher he'd once been, and Cheslav knew it mattered as much where you'd been as where you were.
He reached for the wrought iron knocker, but then changed his mind and rang the bell, instead.
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Date: 2010-03-02 09:26 pm (UTC)Cheslav spoke low and soothingly. He unknotted Aleksandr's tie and pulled it off.
"But this isn't that unpleasant, is it?"
He paused, smiling briefly.
It was strangely natural to touch Aleksandr this way. He was not sure why. Perhaps because they were old friends, or perhaps because Aleksandr was suffering. Perhaps because Cheslav knew there could be such a comfort in human touch.
Ironically, that had been a lesson he learned from Aleksandr and Avdotia.
He began to unbutton Aleksandr's shirt.
"Did I ever tell you why I kept my son with me in Leningrad during the Siege?"
Cheslav knew he hadn't. He simply continued on without waiting for a response, knowing that it was the quiet, even tone of his voice that Aleksandr would be attuned to now, that and the steady beat of the water and Cheslav's careful touch.
He also knew that sometimes, it was good to listen to something other than your own thoughts.
"The Siege had been going on around six months by that time. A man I knew gave me a tip that one of the trucks had made it across the lake and was going to smuggle out as many people as it could. I gathered up Yelena and the girls, and Taras, and we went."
Cheslav paused as he finished with Aleksandr's dress shirt. He removed it, and then tugged at his white undershirt, pulling it up and over his head.
He studied Aleksandr's torso briefly, noting with approval his firm tone and build. Impressive for a bureaucrat, though it was not something Cheslav had been unaware of before. He did not linger however, but instead continued undressing him, his fingers moving easily as if it was something he had done many times before.
"I thought we were too late. There was already a long line in front of us, and the truck was filling up fast. But we reached the front of the line. Yelena and the girls made it on, and then the man with the truck said there was only room for one more."
He undid Aleksandr's belt, continuing to talk as he did so, keeping his motions simple and unweighted.
"Yelena reached for Taras, but I told her no. I turned around to the couple behind us and told them to give their daughter to my wife, that Yelena would take care of her. You have to understand, at that point, I had no idea how long the Siege would go on."
Cheslav knelt to tug at one of Aleksandr's boots, then the other.
"They were afraid, I could tell. They didn't want to give their girl up to strangers, but the truck was going to leave. So in the end they ended up giving her to my wife. I told we'd find them after the Siege was over. And I kept Taras with me."
He paused, pitching the various pieces of Aleksandr's uniform out of the shower and onto the the wet bathroom floor one by one. Finally he turned back to Aleksandr, straightening to meet his eyes.
"Yelena didn't understand, of course."