In which the entertainment at a Turgenev dinner party sucks.
Lucya…
Five years later…
“How could anyone be so beautiful?” Inessa sighs.
“Men can’t be beautiful, that’s for women,” Karolina scoffs.
“No, he’s beyond handsome. The next step up is beautiful,” Inessa says, and I have to agree with her.
Four of Inessa’s friends are hanging on the fence surrounding the training ground at the Turgenev country estate. It’s a massive timbered lodge on the edge of the forest bordering Lake Ladoga. I don’t know how far the Turgenev property extends but I’ve heard their father brag that you could ride your horse for a full day and not reach the end of it. My family was invited for a weekend to attempt to create cordial relations between the St. Petersburg Six Families, the most powerful Bratvas in Russia.
Alexi is in the center of the corral, shirtless and guiding an easily spooked horse through its paces. The stallion is beautiful, a glossy black. And he’s massive, like his master. He tosses his head angrily, his mane flowing, tail twitching impatiently, but he still follows Alexi’s commands. Alexi doesn’t use a whip, his rough hands smooth over the horse’s neck, crooning in a low voice that’s setting my lower half on fire.
“Good workPolnoch'... so good, you are…”
Yanking down my t-shirt, which keeps riding up and showing my soft stomach, I put my foot on the wood rail, pulling myself up higher, trying to get a better look at Alexi andPolnoch', but these girls aren’t budging.
They’re like a flutter of brightly jeweled butterflies, expensive haircuts, and beautiful clothes. Inessa is the prettiest, she looks so much like our mother, blonde hair and big brown eyes, petite and fragile. Men always speak to her gently, like she’s a precious creature to be handled carefully.
Men don’t look at me at all, and I’m fine with that.
“He’s perfection,” Karolina agrees. “Look at all those muscles! That man can handle me like an animal anytime he likes.”
There’s a collective giggle and my eyes roll hard enough to stare at the back of my skull. Now that I’m sixteen, I thought it would be easier to fit in with Inessa’s friends, but they still treat me with a careless sort of contempt. They insist on calling me ‘Plumpy,’ that cursed childhood nickname, and their conversations drop to a whisper whenever I walk into the room. I don’t want to be part of their group, but I know it upsets Mother that I don’t seem to fit in.
Alexi is wearing jeans and muddy boots - and thank you, lord! - he pulled off his sweaty shirt a while ago. His tattoos flex and dance over his hugely muscular chest and arms as he runs gracefully alongside his horse and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the connection between them, something primitive and joyful.
“What are you doing out here? Go back to the house!”
The spell is broken.
Anatoly Turgenev strides out of the stables, tapping a riding crop against his boot. The only resemblance he has to his son is their massive height. The Pakhan of the Turgenev Bratva has a weathered face with cruel eyes, and he has a vicious, coarse sense of humor. No one wants to be on his bad side.
His shouting startlesPolnoch'and the stallion rears back, his enormous hoof nearly striking Alexi on the shoulder. I let out a little shriek before I could stop it. A horse this huge could take off someone’s head with a well-placed kick. Alexi pivots gracefully out of the way and seizesPolnoch'sbridle, pulling his head down, and speaking urgently into its twitching ears.
“Tss... ty moya khrabraya dusha,shhh, you are my brave soul,” he croons toPolnoch'.The tendons in his arms stand out as he keeps his grip on the bridle as the stallion angrily tosses his head, trying to pull away.
“Did you hear Mr. Turgenev? Move!” Inessa yanks on the back of my shirt.
Anatoly storms into the corral, viciously striking his crop onPolnoch'sflank and I hear the high, sharp squeal of pain from the horse. Hunching my shoulders, I follow Inessa back to the house as Alexi’s voice rises to a shout, trying to calm his beloved stallion. I don’t know if his father will keep hitting the poor animal, and I can’t stand to see the pain in Alexi’s eyes, like he’s sharing his horse’s suffering.
“Pust' nam vypadet stol'ko zhe gorya, skol'ko kapel' ostalos' v nashem stakane!May we only suffer as much sorrow as the drops left in our glass!”
We’re on to the fifth round of long-winded toasts at the final dinner of our stay, and no one seems inclined to stop.Dinner stretched into a three-hour extravaganza until only the remnants of thepastila- confectionary fruit squares - and sweetbliniswere left on their silver trays. Mothers with younger children have already left the table to put them to sleep.
The vodka is still pouring freely, and the men’s faces are flushed red with alcohol and laughter, though I notice my father is quietly refusing any more refills.
Alexi is at the opposite end of the long dining table sitting between his brothers. Dmitri’s the eldest, and everyone’s afraid of him. He’s vicious, like his father, and enjoys inflicting pain on anyone weaker than he is.
“To guns, money, and big-breasted women!” Dmitri shouts, draining his glass and slamming it on the table. To my acute discomfort, he was staring right at my chest when he made the toast.
Inessa notices, too. “Don’t worry Plumpy, you’re too young for him,” she whispers, patting my arm.
Alexi’s next. “To family, first and always.”
There’s a hum of approval around the table as everyone downs another shot. The scent of alcohol is so strong that I’m worried if someone leans too close to a candle, their breath could set the tablecloth on fire.
