Read Someone Else's War: A Novel of Russia and America Page 75
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Olivia stood on the porch of the dacha for a few seconds, savoring the pristine and ermine silence occasioned by a heavy fall of new snow. Then, slowly, one step at a time, as if moving through a minefield or very deep water, she walked towards Colonel Zhuralev, carrying her valise in her left hand.
Zhuralev stood braced against the door of his car, his maimed leg shaking, his belly feeling again the bullets. She had not shot herself. But she might still resist. He looked toward the dacha’s window for the presence of General Suslov. He saw no one.
“Good morning, Colonel. I trust none of your men have frostbite.”
The simple civility stunned him. “No, Doctor. They are fine, but you are kind to ask.”
“We did not hear them.”
“I told them that it required only one man to monitor the house. The others could take refuge from the elements in that grove.” He pointed across the open field. “They slept well when not on watch. They are there now, if needed. I do not believe they will be.”
Olivia nodded. “No, they will not. Thank you for that courtesy.”
“How do you wish to proceed?”
“I will now reach into my pocket and surrender my pistol.”
“I will accept it.”
Giving herself no time to change her mind, she reached into the pocket of her wolfskins, withdrew her pistol by the barrel, then handed it to him butt first.
It was, Zhuralev knew, an act of pure defiance. He nodded to his driver, who came out with a pair of handcuffs. “I am sorry to have to do this, but they won’t be tight.”
She shook, badly, as they cuffed her hands behind her, and Zhuralev knew she was shaking not only with fear but also with the immense restraint she had imposed upon herself.
They assisted her into the back seat, positioning her so that her pinioned hands were in the corner between the seat and the door, so that her weight would not be on them, and then Zhuralev joined her. She said nothing at all, but stared straight ahead. In the enclosed space, he could smell her perfume, the scent of smoke and stones and very faintly, of rose and iris. The proud and mournful scent of some noble fortress now in ruins, a scent he’d never encountered before and knew, therefore, that he would always hauntingly associate with her.