"Right." She speeds up. "Show no weakness or appreciation for exquisite architectural features."
"Exactly!" Roman laughs.
Dinner drags on longer than one of my father's annual meetings that he insists on holding with everybrigadierin the Morozov Bratva. I regret choosing the chef's degustation menu as every new course scrapes deeper against my patience, leaving me raw and irritated.
Chef Lev has taken a liking to Ava and insists on explaining each dish in detail.
"This is a traditional salad," he blusters, "Herring Under Fur Coat. You see that the bottom layer of the dish is pickled herring fillet, while the finely shaved beetroot…"
By the time Chef Lev proudly presents the restaurant's signature dessert - aMedovikhoney cake - I'm ready to strangle him with his owntoque blanche.
Still… I suddenly find the culinary ordeal worth the wait as a groan leaves Ava's lips as she takes her first bite of the honey cake. It is blatantly, luxuriously pornographic. Based on how the chef adjusts his spotless white apron, he's thinking the same thing.
"Where to now?" Ava asks, after having thanked Chef Lev profusely. He'd bent to kiss her hand, took one look at my expression and backed away hastily, still nodding and smiling at her.
She loops one arm through mine and then another through Roman's as we leave the restaurant. She's flushed and happy from our excellent meal, pointing at different houses along the boulevard, asking about their histories.
Crossing the Bolsheokhtinsky Bridge, we tell her about skating on the Neva River during winters spent here. "Oh, this is the scene that Alexsey painted!" she says happily. "It's wonderful to see it for myself."
The stories about skating turn to other memories from our childhood, and I realize how skilled my Ava is with interrogation.
"From everything your mother has shared," she says, "your upbringing wasn't as brutal and cruel as your father and his brother Yuri's experience."
We exchange a look over the top of her head. "Very little could be as brutal and cruel as their childhood," I say.
"I would like to point out that Fatherwasstrict as hell," Roman interjects. "Try swimming in a freezing as fuck lake in March, just to, 'get the blood moving.'"
"Thank you for that unpleasant reminder, brother," I say. "Don't forget our spirited runs through the forest, hunting and eating only what we could catch. That was an annual favorite."
"Alexsey always managed to appear weaker than the two of us to make us feel guilty. We'd give him all the best bits of the rabbit, or stag, whatever it was that we caught. It wasn't until he beat us across the lake during the next frigid swim that we realized he had been bullshitting us the entire time," Roman says, laughing fondly.
"I still think he deserved more than a single nut punch for that one." I shake my head.
"A nut punch?” Ava questions incredulously. “Good lord, I thought you people liked each other!”
“We do,” Roman and I answer together.
Our steps slow as we approach the front of the Smol'nyy Cathedral, and she looks up at the enormous stained-glass window above the entryway. The chandeliers inside glow through the glass, highlighting the blues and gilded golds of the exterior as the five onion-shaped domes soar up to the sky. “Oh…” She's rapturous. “Are we allowed to go in?”
“Absolutely,” I say smoothly.
I let Ava wander for a while; she circles the narthex, admiring the ancient carved statues of the Saints, and then I draw her into the smaller chapel east of the enormous one where Sunday services are held.
Father Artur is waiting for us, a tall, angular crow in his long black cassock and four corneredskutiacap. “It's a pleasure to see you again, my sons,” he says, smiling widely at Roman and me. Were I a more cynical man, I would think it was because of the extravagant donations the Morozov Bratva has given over the years. Father Artur, however, is remarkably guileless and truly seems to enjoy our family, even though he is quite clear on where our money comes from.
“And this must be Ava Blue,” he says approvingly, taking her hand in his. “A pleasure to meet you. I am Father Artur.”
“The pleasure is mine.” Ava smiles awkwardly. “How do you know my name?”
His eyes dart uncomfortably to mine. “Ah, to reserve a tour, I had to give our names,” I smile blandly.
“Well, your church is beautiful, Father,” she says.
“It isn't mine,” he smiles. “It is the Lord’s. Though I'm sure he appreciates your words.”
Roman and the priest head up to the altar, speaking in low tones as a sour-faced little woman moves around silently, lighting candles. I’ve seen her here before, arranging flowers and reverently dusting the statues.
I keep Ava busy with some discussion of the Archangel Michael and his flaming sword featured in one of the stained-glass windows while the others quietly prepare for the service.
