The Long-Lost Home Read online

  “Ah!” she said. “Well! It appears . . .”

  “Yes, yes, what is it?” Madame Babushkinov demanded.

  Penelope cleared her throat. “Madame, it appears that your daughter has been—well, let me just read it aloud: ‘Miss Veronika Ivanovna Babushkinova, congratulations! You have been selected to audition for the Imperial Russian Ballet in Saint Petersburg. Please report to the theater at your earliest convenience, but no later than the eighth of April,’ at such and such an address, Saint Petersburg. There are some detailed instructions about what to bring, the proper care of toe shoes, and so on. Veronika, this is quite an honor. What a marvelous surprise!” She offered the stunned girl the letter.

  The twins snickered, but their mother silenced them with a hiss. “My heavens!” she whispered, clasping her hands to her bosom. “Saint Petersburg! The Imperial Ballet! What do you have to say, Nikki?”

  Veronika let the paper flutter to the floor. She raised her arms in a graceful arch above her head and turned her tearstained cheeks to the sky.

  “My destiny calls, at last!” she cried, and folded to the ground as if bowing before the tsar himself.

  “Does that mean we’re going?” Boris asked.

  Madame Babushkinov cuffed him on the head. In a spirit of fairness, she did the same to his brother. “Of course we’re going, foolish child. One does not ignore an invitation from the tsar!”

  After that came a great hubbub of excitement. Madame Babushkinov wondered aloud whether new clothes could be ready in time for the trip, or whether they would be forced to travel to the most fashionable city in all of Russia in clothes that were—horrors!—already a month old. The boys practiced challenging each other to a duel, which they felt certain would impress the tsar, should they meet him, while Veronika energetically practiced every dance step she had ever learned.

  Penelope sent word for the dressmaker to come at once and take down Madame Babushkinov’s instructions. She praised Veronika’s pirouettes and grand jetés, and helped the boys retrieve the gloves they kept hurling to the ground as they took turns yelling, “This insult cannot go unanswered! I challenge you to a duel!”

  Inwardly she felt a pang of relief, for in all the mayhem no one had noticed her mistake. She herself had only realized it while looking out the window: despite the fresh dusting of snow outside, and the fact that a letter had been found on the doorstep, there was not a single footprint leading to the house.

  CAPTAIN BABUSHKINOV DID NOT LEARN about the invitation until later, as he spent the day out riding, inspecting the beet fields. This put him in a foul mood, for the beets’ first tender sprouts had been nipped by the snowfall. Much of the crop was ruined and would have to be replanted.

  It was near dinnertime when he stormed into the house. He stank of horses and left muddy boot prints on the floors that poor Svetlana had so recently scrubbed. His wife made soothing remarks and proposed that he enjoy a sauna, followed by a cold bath and a vigorous massage with a venik, which was a kind of handheld broom made of long birch twigs.

  To go from a piping-hot sauna to an ice-cold bath only to be beaten with a broom might not be everyone’s idea of relaxation, but Captain Babushkinov found it invigorating and did as his wife suggested. (The daredevils among you may be eager to try this for yourselves. If so you are in luck, for the traditional platza massage using a venik is practiced in Russian baths to this very day. Bear in mind that a platza is not for the faint of heart. It requires a thick skin and a high tolerance for agony. Afterward, one is expected to complain that the sauna was too cold, the ice bath too warm, and the venik too soft, but this show of pluck is simply part of the experience. A good platza will leave one parboiled and beaten half to death, yet woozy with gratitude to have survived. This, perhaps, is the true benefit of the practice, and it is not to be sneezed at.)

  Once the captain was suitably refreshed, the family sat down to dinner. Penelope joined them, as she often did. After all, someone had to mind the Babushkawoos at the table while their parents argued. However, tonight Madame Babushkinov was on her very best behavior, full of warmth and charm, while the children ate in fearful silence. They had been ordered with terrifying strictness to say not one word about Veronika’s letter or any other topic until their mother decided the moment was right to spring the news on the captain.

  That moment did not come until after dessert, when the family moved to the drawing room. They pulled their chairs in a half circle ’round the fire while Svetlana made tea in the samovar, a large brass urn filled with water and quite pretty to look at, with a chimney running through the center. A fire burned in the chimney to heat the water, using pinecones as fuel, as they were easily gathered and burned more slowly than coal. They lent the room a wonderful piney scent, too.

  Once the samovar began to “sing” (this was the sound it made as the water inside came to a boil), the tea was prepared and served in small glasses with metal handles. Only then, with the captain well fed and drowsy by the crackling fire, did Madame Babushkinov casually mention that there had been news, such wonderful news, nothing short of a miracle! She then proceeded to tell her husband what it was.

  Minutes passed, but the captain said nothing. His silence was nerve-racking, for no one knew whether to prepare for an explosion or a celebration.

  “Saint Petersburg!” he finally exclaimed. “A trip to Saint Petersburg!” He tugged at the heavy whiskers that ran down both sides of his jaw. “I am due to report to maneuvers next week. How am I to explain my absence to the army?” (To go on “maneuvers” is how the army practices being at war during times of peace. Whether it would be more fruitful to practice being at peace during times of war is a question for philosophers to take up. For now, recall the words of Agatha Swanburne, who once said, “Spend one-tenth preparing for the worst; spend nine-tenths reaching for the best.” As you see, the wise founder was both a deep thinker and good at fractions, two skills that remain useful to this very day.)

  Madame Babushkinov’s self-control began to fray. “The army has hundreds of captains, Ivan,” she snapped, “but Veronika has only one father.”

  “But the expense! There are train tickets and hotels . . .” His great black eyebrows drew together in a single bristling line. “No new clothes, Natasha. Nyet! Not one sock, you hear me?”

  “Nonsense! We cannot go to the capital dressed in rags. This is no time to be cheap! Think of your daughter. Her whole future depends on this trip. It is her one chance for happiness, her only chance, and it will never come again!”

  Through all this, Veronika sat pale cheeked by the fire, curled in a chair with her arms hugged ’round her thin chest. Her feet anxiously traced little dance steps on the carpet, as if they could not help themselves. At her mother’s words she began to moan, soft and high-pitched, but it sounded just like the singing of the samovar, and no one paid her any mind.

  Penelope sat a ways off with her sewing in her lap, although she had not taken a stitch in several minutes. However, one could hardly accuse her of eavesdropping, as the heated words between the captain and his wife were as public as newspaper headlines: PARENTS ARGUE ABOUT CHILD AS IF CHILD CANNOT HEAR THEM, for example, or GROWN-UPS COMPLAIN ABOUT MONEY, AND SUN CONTINUES TO RISE EACH DAY!

  The captain shook his great head back and forth. “Impossible! There are taxes to pay, not only this year’s but last year’s, too. The roof leaks, the horses need shoes, the crops need land, the land needs serfs, the serfs need food. . . .”

  “If it is a question of money,” his wife said in a low voice, “then I suggest you ask your mother.”

  “Ah ha ha!” His deep bass laugh boomed, three shots of a cannon. “You are dreaming!”

  “You know she has a fortune hidden away, though it seems we will not see a ruble of it till she dies.”

  “Nonsense. Her old furs and a few jewels are all the fortune she has left.”

  Madame Babushkinov’s voice grew shrill. “Let her sell some of her gaudy rings to pay for the trip
, then! Someone, get me a knife! I will chop off those crooked fingers myself!”

  The captain was an imposing man, well over six feet tall, with shoulders strong and broad enough to build on. When he stood, his shadow fell across the room. “Enough!” he roared, raising a fist in the air.

  Baby Max began to cry. Svetlana tried to console him by making grim faces, but to no avail. (Yes, in addition to all her other duties, Svetlana had been charged with caring for the toddler in the evenings, as the household had not hired a baby nurse to replace Julia, due to the expense. Unlike Julia, at least Svetlana had the strength to lift the enormous child, and the attention span to keep watch so that he would not climb out the windows or waddle into the kitchen to play with Chef Pierre’s very sharp knives. This was good news for Max, but more work for poor Svetlana.)

  “Fine, fine. I do not wish your mother ill. But why must we wait?” Madame retorted. “Why can’t the old woman give us a portion of our inheritance now, when we are in such need? Ivan Victorovich, surely she must know how things are with us!”

  “My mother’s fortune is a fantasy of yours, nothing more. If it existed, don’t you think I would know?”

  “No, because you are a fool who believes what your mother tells you as if you were a child. You would sooner ruin your daughter’s life—”

  “Stop it!”

  “—ruin her life, than ask your mother for a ruble! A kopek, even! You would rather lose the family dacha than stand up to that selfish old woman!” She pressed her hands to her heart. “Ivan, if we lose the dacha, that will be the end of me! Even thinking about it is like the stab of a knife—oh, my heart! Quick, someone! Fetch my children! Bring them to me, so I may say farewell. . . .”

  On cue, the three older children dashed to their mother’s side, weeping and begging her not to succumb. Baby Max hurled his overheated bulk into her lap, squalling like a siren. This earsplitting scene would last for a good ten minutes. (While it does, you may be interested to learn what a dacha is. Dacha rhymes with cha-cha and is the Russian word for a summerhouse. That a family who lived so miserably on a rundown estate they could scarcely afford would also bear the expense of keeping a summerhouse in the country may seem ridiculous, but to have a dacha was absolutely essential in the Babushkinovs’ social circle. If misfortune struck and a family could no longer afford to keep their dacha, the shame was terrible. If they ran into friends in town who asked when they were leaving for the dacha, they would lie and claim that the dacha was being painted or the roof repaired, and that they would be off to the country the minute the work was done. Families without a dacha had been known to hide at home with the shutters closed and speak in hushed voices all summer long, to make it seem as if they were away—but that is enough about dachas for now, for it appears Madame Babushkinov has some life in her yet. . . .)

  “The dacha was a gift, Ivan!”

  “From the tsar, I know! ‘Let no head go uncovered!’ How many times must I hear about it?”

  This was a rhetorical question and thus required no answer. Everyone in Plinkst knew how the family dacha had been given to Madame Babushkinov’s grandparents by the tsar. It was in gratitude for their services as hatmakers to the royal family. To give an entire house as a thank-you gift may seem extreme—a prompt handwritten note is usually more than sufficient—but this is why it is good to be the tsar. A tsar can give houses, or jewel-encrusted eggs, or hereditary titles or whatever he likes. A gift from the tsar was something to brag about, and heaven knows Madame Babushkinov liked to brag about her dacha.

  “I won’t even think of selling it, Ivan! If you say dacha one more time I’ll scream!” This was not much of a threat, as she was already yelling quite loudly.

  “We could rent it out for a summer or two, that is all I ask.”

  “That is what poor people do,” she bellowed. “We are the Babushkinovs!”

  “If only we were the Rubles! Then I could pay taxes with our name,” he roared back. “As it is, we have a name and no rubles. And all because of those beets!” He shook his fist at the ground, and at the sky, and then at the ground once more, as if unsure where the true blame lay: in the barren earth below or with the cruel beet gods above, who summoned catastrophe at every turn.

  “Fine! If that is what it will take to get my precious girl to Saint Petersburg, then go ahead! Rent out the dacha! For the sake of my daughter’s future”—the woman was near hysteria—“rent it, Ivan! Sell it! Burn it to the ground, I don’t care!”

  A near silence descended; the only sounds were the singing of the samovar, the crackle of the fire, the gasping sobs of the lady of the house. No one else dared breathe or move except Baby Max, who was sweaty and panting like a racehorse, as he was always terribly overdressed and had crawled too near the fire before watchful Svetlana lured him away.

  Captain Babushkinov blinked and wiped a manly tear from his eye. He strode across the room and took his wife in his arms. They wept and trembled; tenderly he kissed the top of her head. When he spoke, his voice was thick with feeling.

  “My love, if you would be willing to sacrifice the family dacha for the sake of this trip, then I am wrong. It will be as you say. We will keep our dacha, and we will go to Saint Petersburg! We leave in three days!”

  This, of course, was the answer Madame had been seeking all along. She wept afresh, with joy this time, and embraced her husband once more. The twins wiped their noses on their sleeves and fell to the floor, where they commenced to wrestle in celebration. By now Baby Max had turned red as, well, a beet, and Svetlana hurriedly took off several of his many layers of clothing and dabbed cool water on his face.

  As for Penelope, she had found the whole business utterly exhausting, but she was glad of the outcome, for of course it was precisely what she had hoped and schemed for. Still, now that the matter was decided, she realized her heart had been pounding in her chest the whole time. What a frightful drama the Babushkinovs made of everything! Even Leeds’ Thespians on Demand, the famed English acting troupe known far and wide for their loud voices and shameless overacting, could not hold a candle to this family.

  “Mama! Papa! There is something I wish to ask.” Like those of the girl in the fairy tale who cannot remove her curséd red shoes, Veronika’s feet had done nothing but dance for hours. Now she tried to stand up, but her legs buckled beneath her, and she nearly fell into the samovar.

  “Careful, you clumsy child, you will set yourself on fire.” Madame did not sound terribly concerned. “Didn’t you hear? You are going to Saint Petersburg to audition for the Imperial Ballet! What else is there to know?”

  Veronika’s feet pointed and flexed of their own accord as their owner struggled to speak. “It is just this: I wonder how they heard of me.”

  Penelope sneezed, loudly and suddenly. “Excuse me!” she exclaimed to no one in particular. “What a terrible cold draft I feel! One of these windows must be open. . . .”

  Madame waved away the girl’s question. “What difference does it make how they heard of you? They did; isn’t that enough?”

  “The tsar’s imperial nose can smell your smelly toe shoes from Saint Petersburg!” Constantin teased.

  Boris pinched his own nose between two fingers to make a nasal, honking duck voice. “Smelly toe shoes!” he honked. “Smelly toe shoes, smelly toe shoes!”

  The captain frowned. “But how did they hear of her?”

  “Ah-choo! Ah-choo!” Penelope jumped to her feet, sneezing with gusto. She was prepared to make a speech about the dangers of going without a hat in cool weather, the native ferns of Russia, or even how to prepare tarte Phillippe, the most indescribably delicious dessert ever invented—whatever distraction was needed to prevent the Babushkinovs from thinking further about the sheer improbability of the letter their daughter had received.

  Fortunately, there was no need for such heroics. Madame Babushkinov had already made up her mind, and mere facts could not sway her opinion. “Perhaps her dance teacher has powerful friend
s,” she replied with an impatient wave. “Who knows? Who cares? We are going to the capital, and that is that. But Ivan, hear me! We cannot possibly set foot in Saint Petersburg dressed like beggars. Not if Veronika is to take her place in the tsar’s own ballet troupe!”

  “We want to go, too!” The boys fought to climb back onto their mother’s lap, but Baby Max had escaped Svetlana and was already there.

  “Hush, don’t worry, my pets.” Madame stroked the boys’ identical heads, which they rested on her knees in compromise, since her lap was full. “We are all going. Even Miss Lumley is going.”

  “Boo! Lessons!” the twins moaned.

  The captain scowled. “Why the governess? It is one more ticket to buy.”

  “She must come, Ivan. It says so in the letter. Read the part about the education of the dancers, Miss Lumley.”

  Obediently, Penelope extracted the letter from her pocket and read: “‘Auditions may not interrupt the dancers’ educations. Therefore, all lessons are to continue as usual during the audition period. Failure to comply will disqualify the applicant.’”

  The captain said, “Hmm.”

  “Personally I find travel tiresome, but of course I will be glad to come with you, since my presence seems to be required.” Penelope sat with her hands folded, stone-faced. Thank goodness she had thought to add in the sentence about education! Now that her scheme had been launched, she needed only to stay out of its way, like a clever rider who knows when to loosen the reins and give a pony his head, so to speak. She added, “I expect Saint Petersburg will be a highly educational place to visit.”

  “Educational! I should say so. It is the most fashionable city in Russia.” Madame Babushkinov returned to her chair and closed her eyes. “I wonder what the officer’s wives are wearing this season.”

  “Officer’s wives, bah! Not one kopek is to be spent on clothes, do you hear me?” The captain sounded cross, but now that the thing was decided, he was feeling better by the minute. Officers’ wives, of course! How clever of Natasha to think of it! Surely a trip to Saint Petersburg was an excellent idea, for there he could meet the senior officers and perhaps put in a good word for himself. He was long overdue for a rise in rank, but for all his size and bluster, the captain disliked nosing about for promotions and salary increases. It wounded his pride to have to ask, and he much preferred going about his business and letting his superiors notice for themselves what a dedicated soldier he was. Perhaps this would be his chance.