Хруст тишины

      (POV Ильи)              The ballroom of our Петроград mansion was a gilded cage of crystal and artifice. The atmosphere was stifling – cloyed with the heavy scent of French attars, the warmth of the породистые аристократы (my father’s words!), and the relentless, driving rhythm of a waltz that seemed to beat against my temples. Mother had spared no expense for my sister’s birthday, yet I felt as though I were merely an exhibit in a gallery of empty mannerisms.              I had known Алиса Андреевна since we were children. A daughter of a diplomat herself, her father and mine were not only colleagues but close friends from their Washington years. Since my arrival in Russia, we had not properly met, and this evening seemed the occasion to fulfill the expectations of our families. Logically, I chose to dance with her – this offered a sense of security, a way to move through the room without having to introduce my American self to every prying eye.              She was a vision, truly. Small, soft, Алиса was draped in champagne silk. Her skin was like porcelain; her eyes: a bright, piercing green. I had kissed perhaps a dozen such debutantes at embassy balls, and I had looked deep into enough gazes to recognize that uncomplicated desire to command. Thus, we danced – swift, effortless, circling round and round.                     “You seem quite elsewhere tonight, Илья,” Алиса whispered during the fifth dance, her gloved hand tightening ever so slightly on my shoulder. “As if your body is here, beautiful and strong, to be sure… But you yourself are not; your heart is not here. Your soul is wandering.”                     I forced a rakish smirk and shook my head when I stretched a hand to turn her around during the dance. Her cheerful laughter made me widen my tired smile. Then I nodded.                     “Forgive me, Алис. Must be the heat. Look at all the candles, for heaven’s sake.”              “Do not involve Heaven in this,” she chuckled, her eyes sparkling. “Just go outside for some fresh air. Let us.”                     The second the music swelled to a close, she grabbed my hand and almost forcefully led me toward the balcony. Away. Away from the элита, facing... Петроград. I took a deep, jagged breath – the winter air hitting me like a violent but honest slap. I leaned against the stone railing, looking out over the dark, frozen artery of the Мойка. Took another breath.              Алиса stepped even closer. From the corner of my eye, I caught the ballroom light flickering over the pearls at her throat.                     “Илья…” she murmured; her voice was a soft, velvet trap. I was well-acquainted with such; I could easily recognize them.                     She leaned in – carefully, yet with the assertiveness of a girl who knows she is правильная. Beautiful, attentive, caring. Everything my father had ever hoped for my future. Everything my mother desired in a daughter-in-law.              Her lips sought mine between caught breaths and half-closed eyes. She moved even closer, but as she did… Snap. A sudden, almost violent image flashed through my mind. Петя’s breath on the nape of my neck. Петя’s lips – hesitant, holy – pressing against my palm.              Against my lips.              I flinched. The memory was far too intrusive, suffocating, devastating. I turned my head away at the last second, and I felt only the heat of Алиса’s breath on my neck and her lips grazing my hair.              Возможен ли хруст сердца?              The absurd thought in sudden Russian brought a sharp, physical ache to my chest. As if every inch of my skin kept rejecting her touch, breath, existence. Rejecting to the point of accepting that this very same skin belonged to someone else.                     “Илья?” Алиса whispered, pulling back, her hand covering her mouth. Her pale face went completely blank: a mask of utter confusion and wounded pride.              “I… I am quite unwell, Алис. Truly. Forgive my boorishness,” I stammered, my pulse racing with a frantic guilt. “I must withdraw. Please. I apologize. If I do not see my sister on my way, please tell her I am sorry. I feel… I cannot breathe.”                     I did not wait for her reply – simply fled through the ballroom, dodging the чиновники и генералы, and bolted up the stairs to my room. My Петроград sanctuary.              I threw myself onto my bed and let my breathing steady its pace as much as physically possible. The darkness of the room swallowed the muffled sound of the orchestra below. I closed my eyes and opened them a few times before ending up staring at the ornamented ceiling, my hand trembling as I touched my other palm.              Ателье мистера Шнайдера.              His face, his body, his everything in that mirror. Stood there not as a person but as a… vision. As a…              Saint Peter.              Петя.              And then… And then…              And then he had said it, with that firm yet soft voice: “Самое прекрасное, что я видел в своей жизни…”              Who? Me?              But he was standing there, not even moving, staring at me through the mirror, smiling, shining… And I just could not gather my thoughts.              I – a fool; a complete and most utter fool (дурачок, да?) – treated him like a stranger, while his words “самое прекрасное, самое прекрасное, самое прекрасное” kept ringing in my ears. How can I be “самое прекрасное”, when there is Петя in this world?              But I just passed by, raping my own heart to maintain an absurd indifference. Because. I. Was. Terrified. I had seen the испуг – the utter shock – in his beautiful (самые прекрасные!) eyes when I tasted the sugar from his lips at the кондитерская. He is a righteous man of calculations and God. And I? Who am I? A stranger in Петроград coming from the other side of the Atlantic, with a reckless past and uncertain future. A storm, a “collision” which was surely ruining him.              But God, how I craved to see him again! To reach out and touch that long, shining hair and imagine how soft it would be and how the Нева winds would play with it if he just lets it down. To look in those eyes and to forget about everything – about this night, about my past, present, about all the prejudice… And to remember just the ice rink, just Петроград – но его Петроград! – just him. To protect him, even though I needed protection myself – from all the reckless thoughts crossing my mind.              I buried myself under the soft but heavy pillows.              Perhaps I should think less and simply relent. Marry Алиса or someone like her. Perhaps I should flirt – I am used to that: Washington is not that different from Петроград in those affairs, to be sure. Simply play the diplomat, the dandy, the posh aristocrat. Forget the taste of калачи on my lips.              A soft creak of the door broke my spiraling thoughts. I tried standing up and noticed a small silhouette appearing in the doorway. Immediately smiled and laid back down with a sigh of relief. Лиза, my little sister.                     “The birthday girl herself, huh?” I chuckled but she did not answer, carefully closing the door behind, then tiptoeing her way toward the bed.              “Илья?” she whispered, “Why are you here? Are you hiding?”                     This time I did not answer. Heard her climbing onto the bed, then shuffling and puffing, and at the end saw her sitting cross-legged right behind me. A sweet little angel in the dim light, her cheeks were flushed and her plump lips were squeezed when she frowned, reaching out to touch my cheek.                     “Are you crying?”                     I blinked, startled. God, I had not even noticed the wetness on my face. Слёзы. Грусть? I brushed away the thought of it, a sharp feeling in my chest. Then kissed her little palm and forced a smile.                     “I am not, Лизонька. Perhaps I just miss Washington, that’s it,” though my voice cracked.                     But Лиза looked at me with wisdom far beyond her ten years and frantically shook her head.                     “No-no! It’s not Washington you miss. You think you miss the old you, because life was simple then,” she put her hand on my forehead and patted it. “But I see you have fallen in love with Петроград. And it is somehow welcoming you too, it suits you, Илья. You look… brighter here. Even without all your typical D.C. dazzle. As if you are finally finding yourself. Even when you are sad.”                     I chuckled and half-closed my eyes, leaning into her touch on my hair.                     “Петроград is not my city, my angel. It belongs to someone else.”              “To whom?” she immediately asked, leaning in close. I did not even realize I said it out loud but now there was no turning back. So, I spilled it all out.                     I did not utter his name – I could not bring myself to speak it aloud in this house – but I told her about a… the Saint. I kept telling her about a man who saw the world in psalms and equations; about the way his eyes sparkled at the reflection of the Нева and how his scent mixed with the smell of Фонтанка. I told her how I felt like a thief, a dishonest man in his presence, and how I was terrified to even breathe next to him, in order not to disrupt his calmness; but, at the same time, it was only with him I was able to fully breathe. And how I craved to the point of madness to touch him, hold him closer, feel him. True, the things I should definitely not share with a young child, but it was her or the cats I could tell my thoughts and feelings to – not a great choice, to be sure.              Лиза looked at me calmly, almost smiling, and, when I finished, she did not seem shocked at all. Just wrapped her small arms around me, hugged me tight, and pressed several loud kisses all over my face, wiping away all the lingering tears.                     “You know, Илья… Once I asked Mama how she knew she loved Papa,” she whispered into my shoulder, then chuckled. “She said her eyes felt exactly like yours look right now. Like they were on fire. And her heart was pitter-pattering, almost flying. But Mama was not crying, Ilia. Why are you crying?”              “Because he is a Saint, Лиза. And I… I am a simple, ordinary human,” I muttered. She frowned again.              “Don’t be silly!” She pulled back and looked me dead in the eye. “You love a person, not a Saint. And this is not a reason to cry but to be happy. To make you both happy. Go to him. Make him the best, most wonderful-wonderful surprise in the world. And then tell him.”              I looked at her, stunned. “Tell him what?”              “That you love him.”                     I gulped and lifted myself up, trying to ignore her blunt comment.                     “A surprise? What kind of surprise?”              “Something special. Something that belongs only to you two!” She smiled, a mischievous glint in her blue eyes. “If you ask nicely, I might even help you. We will find something… I know!”                     She knew; I did not. But in her childish smile I saw a plan beginning to form – an enthusiastic, naïve, and happy. For me – a gamble. But still, I have to admit, much better than a tearful death in an expensive tuxedo.                     ---                     The next day, the air was heavy with the scent of an approaching snowstorm. I rushed straight to the cathedral during the evening prayer, my heart hammering against my ribs. I kept scanning the rows of flickering candles and kneeling figures, amidst all the sighs and whispers, desperate for a glimpse of the Saint among icons.              But alas.              Prepared to walk out with a constricted heart, I stumbled upon Влад – as far as I remember, одноклассник Петра. The one with the almost puppy but also smiling eyes and the smell of – oh, well – cheap tobacco. He was just entering the church, quickly перекрестился (or however they call it in Russian), and, sighing, stared at the icons with a look of almost a profound pessimism. When he noticed me, he lifted an eyebrow but kept silent. This is why I made a gesture at him to walk out.                     — А вот и наш американец… — Влад obviously deliberated whether to have a cigarette once we were out, but then shrugged. — Каким ветром сюда принесло?                     I did not quite understand him but did not give him the chance to explain either.                     — Он где?                     Влад just stared at me, eyes narrowing. He kept silent for a few seconds, then slightly leaned in, lowering his voice.                     — Ты что задумал, а? Он хороший человек, самый-самый лучший и добрый, правильный. И хрупкий как хрусталь, не смотри на то, что он кажется сильным. Какая у тебя игра, американец?                     I caught only half of the words and started to make a joke but then stopped myself. Near one of the columns, I saw Николай. Standing close to the same young officer from the other day. No touching this time —– just a swift exchange of looks and… smiles. Shining but shy, leaning towards each other.              The joke died in my throat, growing into something more painful. I looked back at Влад and shrugged.                     — Хочу то, что у них, understand? — I whispered, gesturing at Николай and the officer with just my chin. Влад turned slightly: enough to see them properly. — Если он хрупкий, I shall keep him safe. Within my own arms, I promise. Нет игры. Просто… это.                     Николай saw me looking at them and, blushing, nodded in our direction. Влад waved at him, then turned back at me. Kept staring for quite some time and the cynicism in his eyes slowly softened. Just a little, yet nonetheless visible.                     — На Васильевском. На Николаевской набережной. Любит он это место: помогает ему думать и не думать одновременно – он сам так говорит.                     And I did not need any further details.                     ---                     Николаевская набережная met me with a discrete isolation – the beautiful stretch of stone, the icy Нева ahead, and the Благовещенский мост in the distance. As I squinted my eyes against the February fog, I even caught the silhouette of the Исакиевский.              The wind was whipping off the snow but – strangely – I did not feel any cold. I was moving without any thought but just with the simple goal of reaching him. Then I saw the still figure, leaning against a granite parapet. A book in his bare hands; his figure a dark, solitary stroke against the pale twilight. Had I had the talent to draw, was my sudden thought, I would build an entire Hermitage of his portraits. But I just sighed and kept staring.              The long hair was not tied in a ponytail this time, flowing with the soft icy wind. As I approached, I noticed him slightly shaking due to the cold but focusing on the book – reading, eyes moving up at the Нева, then falling again on the pages.                     “Самое прекрасное, что я видел в жизни”                     This is where those words belonged to. Only to and about him.              I was still for a minute or two – just admiring the perfect contours of his body, even in the big woolen coat. Endless legs, correct posture, those delicate fingers moving across the pages, and the long-long hair that even the ice drops from the Петроград gloomy sky could not destroy.              I took a deep breath and approached him quietly from behind – my boots helpfully silent on the dusted snow. Soft and breathless, I moved monstrously close enough to spread my oddly steady hands. Reached out and wrapped my arms around his neck from behind, pressing my chest against his back. An impulsive and – I shall admit – completely childish gesture, born of pure, unadulterated longing. Rushed, as all my decisions. I buried my face into the crook of his shoulder, breathing in the scent of wool, old paper, cold, and… freshness, as his long hair tangled around my own frozen locks.              Страх.              The Russian word rang in my ears, as my heart became a drum, beating out a Russian-English rhythm of пожалуйста-don’t-push-me-away-пожалуйста.              He stiffened under my arms for a second. I squeezed my eyes and continued breathing in – if he pushes me away, I want to imprint this scent deep into my lungs for the rest of my unfortunate life. Here comes the rejection but I am not ready. Here comes the next “Это невозможно”. Here comes the death.              But he simply slowly raised his hands, without turning around. Placed them – cold and cotton-soft – over mine, pulling me even closer. Leaned back into me, pressing his neck against my shoulder, a heavy sigh escaping his shivering lips.                     — А ты здесь…. — he whispered and chuckled, sending an immediate warm tingle all over my spine.              For a second, I felt dizzy. But as he continued steadily breathing on my shoulder, I shifted slightly to rest my chin on the crown of his head, closing my eyes against the biting wind. Breathed in the scent – now literally hitting my nostrils.              — А я не уйду, Петь… — my whisper grazed his earlobe and he smiled. I noticed the blush on his cheeks; the moles visible from so close, that it made me curve my lips too, with the desire to feel the skin under them. And so, I did. Pressed a quick, barely felt kiss over the mole on his cheek, close to his nose. He let out a shaky breath, turning almost red. Tried to move but I just turned him around so as to face him directly in the misty eyes. — Не уйду, okay? I am here with you. Твой.              He smiled again, unwrapped my hands from his neck and kissed them – a finger after finger, then the palms – never once breaking his gaze. Then he drew from the pocket of the coat his own leather gloves, and slowly – once again kissing my fingers – pulled the gloves over my ice-cold hands.              I was following all his movements like… заворожённый. Strange that I knew this Russian word, but the English magic did not seem to fully grasp it.              When he looked back at me – cheeks still burning red and a smile shining on his lips – I shyly buried my face in my coat. He chuckled, leaned closer, and pressed a kiss to the tip of my nose.              — Илюш? — and here I melted and buried myself deeper but felt my eyes burning into his. — Ты сейчас у меня в сосульку превратишься.       — „У тебя“? — I grinned stupidly and he tried to frown but chuckled once again. Then dragged me closer, my face literally hitting his chest, and hugged me so tight that I had to pop my head up from my coat to breathe.       — У меня, ангел мой, у меня.              And I let myself drown in that feeling as the snow began to fall, covering us completely. I was certain I would be feverish the next morning. Just as I was certain that the best medicine was hugging me tightly right now, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, covering my face with small kisses. And I was even more certain about the surprise I was planning for him. Soon.