Midnight Days (White Nights 2)

The housekeeper disappears down a hallway, her sneakers not making a sound on the floor.

“You look like you’re miles away,” Alex says. “What are you thinking?”

I wave a hand around the space. “This is very impressive.”

“This palace belonged to a czar. Later, during the Communist era, it was used to house military officers. When capitalism was reinstated, one of the first oligarchs bought the property and restored it to its former glory. It came back onto the market after the death of its owner, which is when I acquired it.” His voice holds a note of pride.

I wander to the foot of the staircase, staring up at the patterns on the pressed ceiling. “This is very different from the style of your house in New York City.”

“To be honest,” he says, his footsteps falling behind me, “I prefer the minimalism and simplicity of the house in New York, but this one has the best location in the city.”

I turn to face him. “And location is important?”

He shrugs. “I prefer Krestovsky to the city. Would you like a tour of the house? If you’d rather rest, I can show you around later.”

In spite of my turmoil, I can’t help but be curious. Besides, if this is where I’m staying for the foreseeable future, I’d better get acquainted with my surroundings.

“I’d like to see it,” I say.

Leading the way up the stairs, Alex shoots me a smile from over his shoulder. “Then I shall oblige.”

As I follow him through corridors and up and down stairs, my astonishment grows. Every room is luxuriously decorated with its own theme, the furnishings fit for a king. Apart from ten bedrooms, each with an en-suite lounge and bathroom, we visit formal and informal lounges, reading rooms, a library, a study, and an indoor heated pool with a skylight. Next to the pool, a gym overlooks the garden. A sauna is nestled into the corner. Working out seems to be on Alex’s list of priorities. Like in his New York home, there’s every imaginable piece of equipment one would expect to find in a gym.

We finish our tour in a modernly renovated kitchen with stainless steel shelves, where a man is chopping vegetables on an island counter.

“This is my cook, Timofey,” Alex says. “Tima, this is Miss Morrell. She hasn’t had lunch yet. Since it’s only breakfast time in New York, prepare a light meal and have Lena take it up to the room.”

Timofey salutes. “Yes, sir. One light meal coming up.”

“His skill compares to that of a Michelin star chef,” Alex says. “You’re in for a treat.”

Timofey clicks his tongue. “Michelin? Those stars mean nothing. Me?” He pulls away the collar of his shirt and points his knife at a tattoo of a star on the curve of his shoulder. “I earned this.”

Alex chuckles. “Don’t mind Tima. He can be overdramatic.”

I take an immediate liking to the cook. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Timofey. I look forward to trying your food.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Morell.”

“Please,” I say, “call me Kate.”

“Only if you’ll call me Tima.” He swings the knife, splitting a carrot down the middle. “You want something special? You ask Tima. I’ll cook you anything you want.”

His enthusiasm makes me smile. “I appreciate that.”

Putting a hand on my lower back, Alex moves me along.

“Do all of your staff members speak English?” I ask, sidestepping his touch.

He steers me into a pantry the size of my studio apartment back in New York. “I insist that they take lessons. It’s good to have language skills. But I can’t take credit for teaching Tima to speak English. He was a chef in a high-end restaurant before he came to work for me. Speaking English was compulsory, not only for training, but also for conversing with the clientele.”

Fragrances of dill and tarragon infiltrate my nose. Bunches of garlic and dried herbs hang on strings from a beam running along the ceiling. “Aren’t chefs normally bound to the kitchen?”

“In those kinds of restaurants, chefs are often called to the table to be paid a compliment. It’s the highest honor a diner can bestow on a chef. It will reflect negatively on the restaurant owner if a chef isn’t able to thank an important English-speaking customer in his own language.”

“That’s a bit harsh.” I duck to pass underneath a bouquet of parsley hanging upside-down from the beam. “Does that mean top-end Russian chefs are required to be polyglots like you?”

He acknowledges the unintended compliment with a crooked smile. “Most people can manage in English.”

I look around the well-stocked space. The shelves are filled with jars of preserved fruit, pickled vegetables, and honey. A cured ham, partially covered with a linen cloth, stands on a chopping block. Baskets filled with fresh fruit and vegetables hang on hooks from the walls. A bigger one on the floor overflows with bread rolls.