Tell Tale: Short Stories

“Nothing,” said Alexander, as he made his next move. It was a few moments before his father countered.

“Papa, may I ask if you’ve managed to get a ticket for the match on Saturday?”

“No,” admitted his father, his eyes never leaving the board. “They’re rarer than a virgin on Nevsky Prospect.”

“Konstantin!” said Elena. “You can behave like a docker at work, but not when you’re at home.”

Konstantin grinned at his son. “But your uncle Niko has been promised a couple of tickets on the terraces, and as I have no interest in going…” Alexander leaped in the air while his father made his next move, pleased to have distracted his son for a moment.

“You could have had as many tickets as you wanted,” said Elena, “if only you’d agree to become a party member.”

“That’s not something I’m willing to do, as you well know. Quid pro quo, an expression you taught me,” said Konstantin, looking across the table at his son. “Never forget, that lot will always expect something in return, and I’m not going to sell my friends down the river for a couple of tickets to a football match.”

“But we haven’t reached the semifinal of the cup for years,” said Alexander.

“And probably won’t again in my lifetime, but it will take a lot more than that to get me to join the Communist Party.”

“Vladimir’s already a pioneer and signed up for the Komsomol,” said Alexander, after he’d made his next move.

“Hardly surprising,” said Konstantin, “otherwise he’d have no hope of getting into the KGB, which is a natural habitat for that particular piece of pond life.”

Once again, Alexander was distracted. “Why are you always so hard on him, Papa?”

“Because he’s a shifty little bastard, just like his father. Be sure you never trust him with a secret, because it will have been passed on to the KGB before you’ve reached home.”

“He’s not that bright,” said Alexander. “Frankly he’ll be lucky to be offered a place at the state university.”

“He may not be bright,” said Konstantin, “but he’s cunning and ruthless, a dangerous combination. Believe me, he’d shop his mother for a ticket to the cup final, probably even the semifinal.”

“Supper’s ready,” said Elena.

“Shall we call it a draw?” said his father.

“No, Papa,” said Alexander. “I’m six moves away from checkmate, and you know it.”

“Stop squabbling, you two,” said Elena, “and lay the table.”

“When did I last manage to beat you?” asked his father as he placed his king on its side.

“November the nineteenth, 1967,” said Alexander. The two of them stood up and shook hands.

Alexander put the salt cellar back on the table and then packed the chess pieces into the box while his father took down three plates from the shelf above the sink. After he’d laid them on the table, Alexander opened the kitchen drawer and took out three knives and three forks of different vintage. He recalled a paragraph in War and Peace that he’d just translated. The Rostovs regularly enjoyed a five-course dinner (better word than supper—he would change it when he returned to his room), and a different set of cutlery accompanied each dish. The family also had a dozen liveried servants who stood behind each chair to serve the meals that had been prepared by three cooks, who never seemed to leave the kitchen. Alexander felt sure that the Rostovs couldn’t have had a better cook than his mother, otherwise she wouldn’t be working in the officers’ club.

One day … he told himself, as he finished laying the table and sat down on the bench opposite his father. Elena joined them, with her latest offering, which she divided between the three of them, but not equally. The remains of the sausage had been cut into three pieces, the potato diced, and the peelings fried and made to look like a delicacy. Both of her men also had a parsnip along with a thick slab of black bread and lard.

“I’ve got a church meeting this evening,” said Konstantin as he picked up his fork. “But I shouldn’t be back too late.”

Alexander cut his sausage into four quarters, chewing each one slowly, between mouthfuls of bread and water. He saved the parsnip till last; the bland taste lingered in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he even liked it. In War and Peace, parsnips were only eaten by the servants. Despite taking their time, the meal was over in a few minutes.

Konstantin emptied his glass of water, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, stood up, and left the room without another word.

“You can go back to your books, Alexander. This shouldn’t take me too long,” Elena said with a wave of the hand.

Alexander happily obeyed her. Back in his room, he replaced the word supper with dinner, before turning to the next page and continuing with his translation of Tolstoy’s masterpiece. The French were advancing on St. Petersburg …

* * *

When Konstantin left the apartment building and walked out onto the street, he was unaware of a pair of eyes staring down at him.