The Bronze Horseman (5 page)

Tatiana backed away toward the bench and saw the soldier running around the bus.

He stopped.

She stopped.

The bus doors opened again. “Need the bus?” asked the driver.

The soldier looked at Tatiana, then at the bus driver.

“Oh, for the sake of Lenin and Stalin!” the driver bellowed, slamming the doors shut for the second time.

Tatiana was left standing in front of the bench. She backed away, tripped, and sat quickly down.

In a casual tone, with a shrug and a roll of his eyes, the soldier said, “I thought it was my bus.”

“Yes, me, too,” she uttered, her voice croaky.

“Your ice cream is melting,” he said helpfully.

And it was, melting right through the bottom point of the waffle cone, onto her dress. “Oh, no,” she said. Tatiana brushed the ice cream, only to spread it in a smear. “Great,” she muttered, and noticed that her hand wiping the dress was trembling.

“Have you been waiting long?” the soldier asked. His voice was strong and deep and had a trace of… she didn’t know. Not from around here, she thought, keeping her gaze lowered.

“Not
too
long,” she replied quietly, and, holding her breath, raised her eyes to get a better look at him. And raised them and raised them. He was tall.

He was wearing a dress uniform. The beige fatigues looked like his Sunday best, and his cap was ornate, with an enameled red star on the front. He wore wide parade shoulder boards in gray metallic lace. They looked impressive, but Tatiana had no idea what they meant. Was he a private? He was carrying his rifle. Did privates carry rifles? On the left side of his chest he wore a single silver medal trimmed in gold.

Underneath his umber cap he was dark-haired. The youth and dark hair were to his advantage, Tatiana thought, as her shy eyes met his eyes, which were the color of caramel—one shade darker than her crème brûlée ice cream. Were they a soldier’s eyes? Were they a man’s eyes? They were peaceful and smiling.

Tatiana and the soldier stared at each other for a moment or two, but it was a moment or two too long. Strangers looked at each other for half a nothing before averting their eyes. Tatiana felt as if she could open her mouth and say his name. She glanced away, feeling unsteady and warm.

“Your ice cream is still melting,” the soldier repeated helpfully.

Blushing, Tatiana said with haste, “Oh, this ice cream. I’m finished with it.” She got up and threw it emphatically in the trash, wishing she had a handkerchief to wipe her stained dress.

Tatiana couldn’t tell if he was young like her; no, he seemed older. Like a young man, looking at her with a man’s eyes. She blushed again, continuing to stare at the pavement between her red sandals and his black army boots.

A bus came. The soldier turned away from her and walked toward it. Tatiana watched him. Even his walk was from another world; the step was too sure, the stride too long, yet somehow it all seemed right, looked right, felt right. It was like stumbling on a book you thought you had lost. Ah, yes, there it is.

In a minute the bus doors were going to open and he was going to hop on the bus and wave a little good-bye to her and she was never going to see him again.
Don’t go!
Tatiana shouted to him in her mind.

As the soldier got closer to the bus, he slowed down and stopped. At the last minute he backed away, shaking his head at the bus driver, who made a frustrated motion with his hands, slammed the door shut, and peeled away from the curb.

The soldier came back and sat on the bench.

The rest of her day flew out of her head without even a farewell.

Tatiana and the soldier were having a silence. How can we be having a silence? Tatiana thought. We just met. Wait. We haven’t met at all. We don’t know each other. How could we be having
anything
?

Nervously she looked up and down the street. Suddenly it occurred to her that he might be hearing the thumping in her chest, for how could he
not
? The noise had scared away the crows from the trees behind them. The birds had flown off in a panic, their wings flapping fervently. She knew—it was her.

Now
she needed her bus to come. Now.

He was a soldier, yes, but she had seen soldiers before. And he was good-looking, yes, but she had seen good-looking before. Once or twice last summer she had even met good-looking soldiers. One, she forgot his name now—as she forgot most things now—had bought her an ice cream.

It wasn’t this soldier’s uniform that affected her, and it wasn’t his looks. It was the way he had stared at her from across the street, separated from her by ten meters of concrete, a bus, and the electric wires of the tram line.

He took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his uniform. “Would you like one?”

“Oh, no, no,” Tatiana replied. “I don’t smoke.”

The soldier put the cigarettes back in his pocket. “I don’t know anyone who doesn’t smoke,” he said lightly.

She and her grandfather were the only ones Tatiana knew who didn’t smoke. She couldn’t continue to be silent; it was too pathetic. But when Tatiana opened her mouth to speak, all the words she thought of saying sounded so stupid that she just closed her mouth and begged silently for the bus to come.

It didn’t.

Finally the soldier spoke again. “Are you waiting for bus 22?”

“Yes,” Tatiana replied in a tinny voice. “Wait, no.” She saw a bus with three digits coming up. It was Number 136.

“This is the one I’m going to take,” she said without thinking and quickly got up.

“One thirty-six?” she heard him mutter behind her.

Tatiana walked toward it, took out five kopecks, and climbed aboard. After paying, she made her way to the back of the bus and sat down just in time to see the soldier getting on and making his way to the back.

He sat one seat behind her on the opposite side.

Tatiana scooted over to the window and tried not to think of him. Where did she intend to go on bus 136? Oh, yes, that’s the bus she took to Marina’s on Polustrovsky Prospekt. She would go there. She’d get off at Polustrovsky and go ring Marina’s doorbell.

Tatiana could see the soldier out of the corner of her eye.

Where was
he
going on bus Number 136?

The bus passed Tauride Park and turned at Liteiny Prospekt.

Tatiana straightened out the folds of her dress and traced the embroidered shapes of the roses with her fingers. Bending over between the seats, she adjusted her sandals. But mainly what she did was hope at every stop that the soldier would not get off. Not here, she thought, not here. And not here either. Where she wanted him to get off, Tatiana didn’t know; all she knew was that she didn’t want him to get off
here
.

The soldier didn’t. Tatiana could tell he sat very calmly, looking out his window. Occasionally he would turn toward the front of the bus, and then Tatiana could swear he was looking at her.

After crossing Liteiny Bridge over the river Neva, the bus continued across town. The few stores Tatiana saw out the window either had long lines or were closed.

The streets became progressively emptier—bright, deserted Leningrad streets.

Stop after stop after stop went by. She was getting farther into north Leningrad.

Her head clearing briefly, Tatiana realized she had long since passed Marina’s stop near Polustrovsky. Now she couldn’t even tell where she was anymore. Unsettled, she moved tensely around on the seat.

Where was she going? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t get off the bus. First of all, the soldier was making no move to ring the bell, and second, she didn’t know where she was. If Tatiana got off here, she would have to cross the street and take the bus back.

What was she hoping for anyway? To watch where he got off and then come back here another day with Marina? The thought made Tatiana twitch with disquiet.

Come back to find her soldier.

It was ridiculous. Right now she was hoping merely for a graceful retreat and a way back home.

Little by little, other people trickled off the bus. Finally there was no one left except Tatiana and the soldier.

The bus sped on. Tatiana didn’t know what to do anymore. The soldier was not getting off the bus. What have I gotten myself into? she thought. She decided to get off, but when she rang the bell, the bus driver turned around and said, “You want to get off here, girl? Nothing here but industrial buildings. You meeting somebody?”

“Uh, no,” she stammered.

“Well, then wait. Next will be the last stop.”

Mortified, Tatiana sat back down with a thump.

The bus pulled into a dusty terminal.

The driver said, “Last stop.”

Tatiana got off the bus into a hot, earth-covered bus station, which was a square lot at the end of an empty street. She was afraid to turn around. She put her hand on her chest to still her relentless heart. What was she supposed to do now? Nothing to do but take the bus back. Slowly she walked out of the station.

After—and only after—taking the deepest breath, Tatiana finally looked to her right, and there he was, smiling cheerfully at her. He had perfect white teeth—unusual for a Russian. She couldn’t help but smile back. Relief must have shown in her face. Relief and apprehension and anxiety; all that, and something else, too.

Grinning, the soldier said, “All right, I give up. Where
are
you going?”

What could Tatiana say?

His Russian was slightly accented. It was correct Russian, just slightly accented. She tried to figure out if the accent and the white teeth came from the same place and, if so, where that place was. Georgia, maybe? Armenia? Somewhere near the Black Sea. He sounded as if he came from around salt water.

“Excuse me?” Tatiana said at last.

The soldier smiled again. “Where are you
going
?”

Looking up at him, Tatiana got a crick in her neck. She was a waif of a girl, and the soldier towered over her. Even in her high heels she barely came up to the base of his throat. Another thing she must ask him, if she could get her tongue back from him—the height. The teeth, the accent, and the height, all from the same place, comrade?

They had stopped stupidly in the middle of the deserted street. There wasn’t much activity around the bus terminal on a Sunday when war had started. Instead of hanging around near buses, people were standing in lines buying food. Not Tatiana, no, she was stopped stupidly in the middle of the street.

“I think I missed my stop,” Tatiana muttered. “I have to go back.”

“Where
were
you going?” he repeated politely, still standing across from her, not moving, not making a move to move. Standing completely still, eclipsing the sun.

“Where?” she asked rhetorically. Her hair was a big mess, wasn’t it? Tatiana never wore makeup, but she wished she had a little lipstick. Something, anything, so she wouldn’t feel so plain and silly.

“Let’s get out of the street,” the soldier said. They crossed. “You want to sit?” He pointed to a bench by the bus stop sign. “We can wait for the next bus here.” They sat. He sat too close to her.

“You know, it’s the oddest thing,” Tatiana began after a prolonged throat clearing. “My cousin Marina lives on Polustrovsky Prospekt—I was going there—”

“That was several kilometers ago. A dozen bus stops.”

“No,” Tatiana said, flustered. “I must have just missed it.”

He made a serious face. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you right back. The bus will come in a few minutes.”

Glancing at him, she asked, “Where were…
you
going?”

“Me? I’m with the garrison. I’m on city patrol today.” His eyes were twinkling.

Oh, perfect, Tatiana thought, looking away. He was merely on city patrol, and I was headed practically to Murmansk. What an idiot. Embarrassed, her face all red, she suddenly felt light-headed. She looked down at her shoes. “Except for the ice cream, I haven’t eaten all day,” she said feebly, her consciousness yielding to unconsciousness in a matter of suspended seconds. The soldier’s arm went around her back, and his calm, firm voice said, “No. No, don’t faint. Stay up.”

And she did.

Woozy and disoriented, she didn’t want to see his tilted head looking at her solicitously. She smelled him, something pleasant and masculine, not alcohol or sweat like most Russians. What was it? Soap? Cologne for men? Men in the Soviet Union did not wear cologne. No, it was just him.

“I’m sorry,” Tatiana said weakly, attempting to stand up. He helped her. “Thank you.”

“Not at all. Are you all right?”

“Absolutely. Just hungry, I think.”

He was still holding her. The perimeter of her upper arm was inside his hand, which was the size of a small country, perhaps Poland. Trembling slightly, Tatiana straightened herself, and he let her go, leaving a warm empty space where his hand had been.

“Sitting on the bus, now out in the sun…” the soldier said with some concern in his voice. “You’ll be all right. Come on.” He pointed. “There’s our bus.”

The bus came, driven by the same driver, who looked at them with raised eyebrows and said nothing.

This time they sat together, Tatiana near the window, the soldier with his uniformed arm draped over the wooden back of the seat behind her.

Looking at him in this proximity was truly impossible. There was just no hiding from his eyes. But it was his eyes that Tatiana wanted most to see.

“I don’t normally faint,” she said, looking out the window. That was a lie. She fainted all the time. All someone had to do was bump a chair against her knee and she was on the floor unconscious. The teachers at school used to send home two or three notes a month about her fainting.

She glanced at him.

Smiling irrepressibly, the soldier said, “What’s your name anyway?”

“Tatiana,” she said, noticing the slight stubble on his face, the sharp line of his nose, his black brows, and the small gray scar on his forehead. He was tanned under the stubble. His white teeth were outstanding.

“Tatiana,” he repeated in his deep voice. “Tatiana,” he said, slower, gentler. “Tania? Tanechka?”

“Tania,” she replied and gave him her hand. Before he told her his name, he took it. Her small, slender, white hand disappeared in his enormous, warm, dark one. She thought he must have heard her heart through her fingers, through her wrist, through all the veins under her skin.