Dearest Natalia. I have returned to Mirosa. The valley is as I remember, with amber sunlight that makes the air shimmer like spun gold. I like to imagine you beside me as I walk the hills of my estate. I would show you the apple groves and the profusion of lilacs that perfume the air. When we are tired from walking, we will lie on our backs and gaze at the clouds overhead and dream of the world to come. Natalia, I want you to join me in Russia. These days have been the happiest and saddest of my life. My spirit rejoices at being back home, but my soul aches for you. Come to Mirosa, Natalia! I will be waiting for you with open arms. If you wish to work in a bank, we shall find a way to make it happen. If you wish to relax and do nothing more stressful than watch the sun rise and set, there is a balcony from my house overlooking the valley where we can do this together.
I have not yet seen the czar or secured a reaffirmation of the treaty. The czar surrounds himself with people who shield him from distastefulnews, but I continue to work toward a meeting. Until then, I savor my time at Mirosa and dream of the day you will join me.
Natalia leaned against the doorjamb, holding the telegram to her heart. The world Dimitri painted seemed so perfect. She could pack a trunk and be on the next steamship, but the logical part of her mind overruled the wayward impulse.
She would turn into a shell of a woman if she lived at Mirosa. She still didn’t know exactly what God wanted her to do with her abilities, but it wasn’t to watch the sun rise and set in a rural dacha.
She and Dimitri hadn’t even been apart for a month, and it was natural for the pain of separation to still be fierce. It might not last. It was easy for Dimitri to ask her to join him in Russia, but he wasn’t the one who would leave his home, family, and every familiar guidepost in his world.
But still, a part of her was tempted.
31
Once Dimitri began wiring Natalia, it was impossible to stop. Back when they corresponded during his work on the railroad, he hadn’t truly known her. They liked and respected each other, but he didn’t know the cadence of her voice, or the way she could sound serious even when she was teasing, or how comfortably her head fit beneath his jaw when he embraced her. Now he knew all those things and heard Natalia’s real voice while reading her messages, which made them all the more meaningful.
In the mornings Dimitri worked in the old cider mill on his estate, but in the late afternoons he rode into town, since Natalia would be awake in New York and he could pester her for a little conversation. Lately she had been eager to tell him about her recording of “Waves of the Amur.” Maxim Tachenko recorded the song perfectly on his first and only take, and she was currently shipping the discs across the United States.
Her success with “Waves of the Amur” had inspired her to commission additional recordings of other musicians, and he wanted to know more. From the moment she told him about her new venture, he had been cheering her on from afar.
Well, mostly cheering her on. He hectored her mercilessly over her regrettable fondness for German composers, but what vision! What chutzpah! Watching Natalia embark on this newline of business was almost as much fun as being a part of it himself.
The general store was two miles away, a sad little outpost with one wall of canned goods, a shelf of vodka and hard cider, and barrels of flour, barley, and oats filling most of the floorspace. In one corner behind the front counter was a telegraph machine, possibly the best invention of the past century for rural people because it was a lifeline to the rest of the world.
Natalia usually gave more interesting replies when he teased her, so he started with a modest jab.
Dearest Natalia. I await with bated breath to learn which musical interlude you have chosen for your next release. For the love of all humanity, I pray it is not another German composer. Sincerely, your devoted Dimitri.
He went outside to await her reply. It would take a while for the message to arrive at her townhouse and then for her to walk the two blocks to the nearest pharmacy, but he liked to imagine her receiving his note. The smile on her face. The way her clever eyes would flash with calculation while planning her reply.
A gust of wind carried a smattering of leaves through the air. The days were growing shorter, and soon the dark Russian winter would be upon them, but for today he looked with fondness on the worn country lane leading to this store. He was getting used to this view as his regular exchanges with Natalia filled his hours.
Twenty minutes after sending the telegram, mechanical tapping from inside the store brought him to his feet. He loitered impatiently as the clerk handwrote the message for him and put his hand out to read it as soon as it was done.
“Two rubles,” the shopkeeper demanded, holding the telegram to his chest.
Dimitri paid the man, impatient to see what Natalia wrote.He smiled as he read that she had commissioned a recording of Brahms’sHungarian Dances.The master copy was already complete, and she was headed to the factory in Jersey City to oversee the production of a thousand copies.
His heart swelled with pride. Natalia had made the bank the center of her world for too long. Now that she had been driven out of it, she was pursuing her love of moody, romantic music that she’d always kept carefully concealed.
He could not resist the temptation to advise her on upcoming recordings.
No more German music, please. I humbly suggest one of the new Russian composers whose visionary style will lead us into the new century.
Her response wasn’t long in coming. She insisted that Russian composers like Rimsky-Korsakov and Alexander Borodin were not well known in America and she wouldn’t earn her investment back on the master copy. He replied they were famous in Europe and had attained near-sacred status in Russia.
Once again, her response came within a few minutes.
I am not selling records in Russia. I need to sell them in America.
Dimitri set the message on the front counter, thrumming his fingers against it. Why couldn’t she sell them in Russia? If she could ship railroad supplies to Siberia, why couldn’t she send a few crates of record albums to Saint Petersburg? It was the most sophisticated city in all of Russia, and he could sell them for her. He and Natalia had been business partners on the Trans-Siberian, and they could be partners again.
He impulsively scribbled out his proposal and thrust it at the clerk.
Commission five thousand copies of “Flight of the Bumblebee” by Rimsky-Korsakov and ship them to me. I will sell them for you here.
Her reaction was shocked, as he knew it would be, but Natalia was a woman of business and naturally cautious. In time, she would see the merit of his proposal. After only two more exchanges of messages, she agreed to the venture.
That day began their new business relationship. In the coming weeks she advised him on which types of retail shops sold musical recordings, and he sought them out to initiate an agreement to sell Natalia’s records. Their new partnership wasn’t as good as having her here, but it was satisfying.
