It was a reference to Mirosa and his title. Dimitri bowed hishead in acknowledgment. “No one understands that better than I do. I would be happy to allow those albums to molder in the warehouse, provided the right conditions are met. Perhaps we can meet after the parade to discuss matters?”
Baron Freedericksz narrowed his eyes. “We will discuss it now,” he said, gesturing to the administrative building on the far side of the parade field.
Ten minutes later, Dimitri had agreed to delay the distribution of the albums in exchange for an audience with the czar the following week.
34
It felt strange to listen to Christmas carols in September, but the album Natalia had commissioned needed to be recorded now in order to press enough copies for the Christmas season. Even though there had been no softening of her father’s willingness to allow her back into the bank, he enthusiastically supported her music venture. He offered advice on contracts and let her take advantage of his shipping connections for her overseas exports. He’d even come to the studio to listen as a trio of brass musicians recorded her Christmas album.
The room was small, and the recording device looked similar to a phonograph, except the flaring bell was much larger to capture the sound. Instead of a shellac album, the rotating disc was coated with waxy chemicals onto which the needle would make tiny impressions of the sound vibrations. The two trumpeters and the trombone player stood close to the bell-shaped receiver, while Natalia and Oscar hugged the back wall and held their hands over their ears as “Good King Wenceslas” filled the room. “O Holy Night” came next. Someday deep in December, this recording would be heard in farmhouses, tenements, and homesteads across the nation. Someday it would be heard in Russia too.
Maybe it was the swelling emotion in the music that madeher teary-eyed. It was too late to ship the records overseas in time for Christmas, but she could press enough copies to sell them in Russia next year.
Would Dimitri still be a part of her life next Christmas? It had been four months since he left, and even though their lively exchange of telegrams continued, the messages weren’t enough to ease her loneliness. Thinking of Dimitri hurt more than it made her happy.
The final passages of “O Holy Night” were coming to an end when a door slammed in the hallway outside.
The loud bang caused a trumpeter to jerk his instrument aside. “What was that?” he snapped.
The technician lifted the needle off the waxed disc. The recording was ruined, and they would have to start again. Waxed discs were expensive too. She cast a baleful eye at the intruder who stepped inside. It was a delivery boy from the Western Union.
“Telegram for Miss Natalia Blackstone,” he announced, oblivious to the lovely recording he’d just ruined.
“Here,” she said, handing the boy a coin before signing her name on the clipboard to acknowledge receipt of the wire.
“Can I have an extra tip?” the boy asked. “I tried to deliver it to the townhouse where it was addressed, but a construction worker told me you would be here, so it’s almost like I made two deliveries.”
Natalia scrounged in her purse for another coin. It was true that she had asked the carpenter installing her new kitchen cabinets to forward messages to her here at the studio. She’d failed to anticipate anyone would ignore theDo Not Disturbsign on the door.
She pushed her annoyance aside to read the telegram.
Dearest Natalia. Yesterday I cut myself while trimming my beard. My hands are blistered from work in the mill, and I don’t have the recipe for your special salve. This morning I awoke with a crick in my neck. My life is full of pain, but then I remembered you, and my worldbrightened! Oh, Natalia, when are you going to come to Russia and put me out of my misery? I need you to rub salve on my hands. Your devoted servant awaits word from you.
A wave of sadness overcame her. It was one of Dimitri’s pointless telegrams, obviously just an opening salvo in preparation for a morning of flirtation. There was a time when she would have been delighted to fritter away a few hours in such a distraction, because Dimitri was fun and charming and she adored him. Shelovedhim.
Which was why his messages were becoming painful. She didn’t belong in Russia, and it was becoming increasingly clear he would never come back to America.
“Well?” her father drawled, knowing full well who the telegram was from and not liking it.
She tucked it in her purse before he could read it. “It’s nothing.”
The musicians were ready to record “O Holy Night” again.As soon as they were finished, she could hurry to the Western Union station a few blocks away and reply to Dimitri’s message so he wouldn’t be kept waiting too long.
The brass trio began playing, and the reverent, hopeful music gradually swelled to fill the room. Would she ever spend a Christmas with Dimitri? Or would year after year go by as she sought emotional sustenance from whimsical telegrams? Other women would have a husband in their bed, children to hold and nurture and raise.
She would have a stack of telegrams.
The joy of “O Holy Night” felt jarring against her loneliness, and she clamped her palms over her ears. It was time either to go to Russia or to end things with Dimitri. As long as she kept escaping into his telegrams, it would be impossible to move forward and find another man to love.
She wouldn’t reply to today’s message. A clean break would be best. She lowered her head, embarrassed by the tear that splatted on the tile floor, but this music made everything ache.The song ended, and she held her breath because it was essential to capture a few moments of silence at the conclusion of the recording. She counted five heartbeats.
“Cut,” the technician announced. “Well done, gentlemen!”
The musicians laughed and congratulated each other. There was a bit of applause and shuffling feet as the musicians stretched their muscles. She kept her head down, unwilling to show her face until she could contain herself.
“Don’t cry, Natalia.” Her father’s voice was kind, and she wished he couldn’t read her so well, but she had to keep her head lowered.
“Sometimes it’s just so hard,” she whispered, but in her heart she knew she was doing the right thing.
