69 Keeney Avenue

CHAPTER NINE

  We raced through the streets of West Hartford at a breathtaking speed. Alexander gripped the steering wheel tightly, until his fingers turned white from the effort. The side of his face was equally white, though a shadow hovered over his eyes. He was deathly silent as he drove, never once looking in my direction. His thin shoulders hunched over the wheel; for a moment, I thought he resembled the haunted man from the Police Station.

  Before I knew it, we had arrived at 69 Keeney Avenue. Alexander parked the car in the driveway, and we gingerly stepped out upon the front lawn. For some reason, the house appeared much as it had the first time I had seen it. The shutters looked as forbidding as ever. The shadow from the building covered us both, and I once again felt a cold chill run up and down my spine. I quickly glanced at the hunter-green bushes, hoping for some sign of my little friend Becky. But she was nowhere to be seen.

  Alexander dragged me by the hand in the general direction of the house. We scampered past the trellis of roses that adorned the wall of the abode as we entered the front porch. The sound of a loud dog barking greeted my ears as I ducked my head to fit into the claustrophobic porch. And though the heat inside was stifling, I suddenly felt a paralyzing cold run through my body. It was sharper and more powerful than any other sensation I had previously experienced. It froze me in place, stiffening me like a marble statue. A state of pure terror swept over me. But Alexander, seemingly oblivious to my emotions, forced me to move forward. And so, forward into 69 Keeney Avenue I went.

  The house was dark. I thought that I had left the lights on when I had departed earlier in the day. But it was as black as coal in the living room. Why hadn’t Harriet tuned on a lamp? Harriet! All of a sudden, I found myself wondering if the older lady was ok. I stumbled around in the shadows, desperately searching for a light switch. I could hear the sound of Alexander attempting to do the same. Finally, I found the switch on the side of the living room wall. I pulled it up and down. Nothing! Was the power dead? What was happening? It all reminded me of a nightmare I had experienced as a young girl in Russia. In the dream, I had attempted to switch on the lights at home, but none of them would work. My nightmares were becoming my reality!

  Suddenly, I saw a flicker of light visible in the room. A warm glow emitted from a tiny flame. I could just make out Alexander’s face in the glare of the flame. Strange shadows seemed to reflect off of his visage. An eerie smile displayed itself upon his somber features. But like all of the Pavlovich men, his eyes weren’t smiling.

  “Sonia, come over here,” Alexander commanded. I obeyed reluctantly, stepping cautiously to where he was standing. This proved to be difficult in the blackness of the room. Twice, I tripped over furniture, hurting my knee at one point. Eventually, I arrived at the place where he was attempting with some labor to steady the light. Alexander surprised me by reaching over and gently holding me by the hand. To my satisfaction, this hand was warm.

  “Why so dark?” I asked the obvious question, fear betraying itself in my shaky voice. “It is only being early evening,” I commented.

  “There must have been some kind of power surge earlier…the electricity is out,” he replied. But Alexander didn’t sound convinced by his own words. “This lighter won’t last forever. We need to find a candle or flashlight,” he said.

  Alexander tugged gently on my arm, and we shuffled our feet in the general direction of the kitchen. We felt our way through the arch of the open door; we then entered the silent room. There was something almost sinister about the quiet; it seemed to suggest horrible, wicked things to my imagination. And then, the sound of the barking dog grew louder. I reached to pull for my earlobe, but Alexander was holding my hand firmly, effectively preventing me from carrying out my nervous compulsion.

  I was shaken back to reality by the sound of Alexander opening a drawer. I could hear the racket made by him while he moved several various items about. But then, there was a sudden flash. As a larger flame lit up the room, I realized that Alexander had been successful in finding matches and a candle. I could now observe the kitchen by the illumination afforded us by the wax candle in his hand. It was a steady, dependable brightness than that of the cigarette lighter. It suddenly occurred to me to wonder why he possessed a lighter in the first place. Actually, I had never witnessed him smoking in my presence.

  “We have to find Harriet,” Alexander declared. “I’m afraid that she might be in grave danger,” he said apprehensively.

  I was dismayed by his statement. There seemed to be something in all of this that I had yet to understand. “Why?” I asked him. “What danger she being in?” I inquired in frustration. I dropped his hand, and quickly pulled on my earlobe. Just as quickly as I had done it, I pulled my hand away, becoming red in the face with embarrassment. To my relief, Alexander looked away, pretending not to notice. “What danger Harriet being in?” I repeated.

  Alexander hesitated for a moment. I think he still wasn’t sure if he could trust me. I reached for his hand and held it, giving it a friendly squeeze. Alexander seemed to relax a little bit. His breathing became slower and more controlled.

  “She is a true believer,” he said sardonically. “Nicholas was one as well. The Second Seal has been opened, and the true believers are beginning to vanish. It is the Rapture,” he informed me.

  I was more befuddled than ever. The Rapture? That was some biblical story concerning the End of Days. Father Nicolai had once spoken of this in a sermon. But what did it have to do with Harriet? I suddenly felt a sense of dread for her safety. I ran in the dark, smacking into various objects as I desperately made my way to Harriet’s room. I could hear Alexander calling out to me, but I chose to ignore his cries. I needed to find Harriet!

  “Harriet!” I shouted out as I searched for her room in the dusk. “Where are you being, Harriet?” I asked in frustration. I finally found her door, and despite my apprehensions, pushed my way inside. It wasn’t locked, which to me was very strange. Harriet always kept her door secured from the inside.

  As I gained admission to the chamber, I was startled by an uncommon sight. Instead of darkness, the room was basked in the glow of a red light. For the first time, I noticed how many crucifixes Harriet kept on her walls. I had only been in her room once before, and had failed to notice the religious character of the décor. Granted, I had only been given a brief look, as Harriet Blom valued her privacy. I now observed an interesting painting of a suffering Jesus on the cross. It seemed to come alive as I regarded it; the throbbing of the Savior’s chest was as real to me as the throbbing of my own heart. And the blood from His wounds appeared to flow down right before my eyes. I averted my gaze, looking instead to the bed. For a moment, I thought I saw Harriet lying down on the mattress, her arms crossed and a little bible in her hands.

  But then, the light flickered, and she was gone from my sight. I screamed, pulling on the bed sheets in terror. I ransacked the bed, rummaging through it but to no avail. To search further was fruitless. Harriet was gone!

  Suddenly, I felt the presence of Alexander Pavlovich. The bizarre red light was gone, replaced by the more reassuring glow of his candle. I stared at him with scorn and contempt; he seemed like some kind of rogue, a villain who had played some part in Harriet’s disappearance. But then, I happened to regard his eyes. There were fresh tears flowing from them. It was then that I remembered that he had just lost someone that he loved. I glanced down at the bed, noticing something strange. It was blood---lots of fresh, warm blood. It was all over the sheets and all over my hands as well. I realized that I had Harriet’s blood on my hands---and on my soul.

  I opened my mouth to scream, yet no sound came forth. I attempted to get up from where I had been kneeling, but seemed to have lost the ability to stand on my own two legs. I almost collapsed, but Alexander caught me before I could hit the floor. I swooned in his strong arms, the horror of the situation overwhelming my senses. He supported me, rocking me back and forth as he whispered reassuringly into my ear.

>   “It’s not you, Sonia,” he said gently. “You’re not to blame for any of this. It’s the curse laid on my family many years ago,” he informed me.

  Suddenly, all of the lights in the house seemed to turn back on at once. White radiance enveloped the two of us, and I felt some sort of consciousness, some presence, that suggested that Alexander’s fate was bound together to that of my own. I slowly rose to my feet, gently pushing him away from me. I had an overwhelming urge to return to the safety of my room. I slowly treaded my way towards it, taking short, careful strides down the hallway. As I passed a picture hanging on the white, stucco wall, I couldn’t help stopping and examining it a little closer. It was a painting of Nicholas’, called “Twilight of the Gods”. It depicted a Norse legend concerning the end of the world. Before he had vanished, Nicholas had told me some things about the painting. In one corner of the picture, the god Thor was dying from a serpent’s bite. In the sky, Asgard, the kingdom of the gods, was aflame. Midgard, the land of the humans, was frozen. People lay dead on the ground. The sun and the moon were being devoured by giant wolves. I had never seen such detail in one painting before; the vividness struck me hard, I could feel the combination of blistering heat and icy cold striking my face. Suddenly, I thought that I could see Harriet’s face visible in the picture. She looked right at me, seemingly terrified. I turned my gaze away and when I looked a second time, she was gone.

  I opened the door to my room, worn out by the day’s events. I switched on the light, intending to lie down on the bed and collect my thoughts. I happened to glance at the Russian dolls on the white shelf. I had never noticed how much the large one resembled Ivan Pavlovich. I admonished myself for thinking I saw his image everywhere. But then, on an impulse, I reached for one of the wooden Matryoshka dolls and pulled at it. The doll twisted open in my hands, the Byzantine image on its surface seemingly glowing with vibrant colors. And then I spotted the smaller doll inside of it. No…it must have been my imagination. But it was real---a Russian Matryoshka doll of Nicholas Pavlovich. The same weary eyes hidden behind dirty glasses glanced back at me. I trembled with alarm as I gingerly held the doll in my hand. It was so hot that it felt like it was burning my skin; nevertheless, I couldn’t seem to let it go.

  I rotated the second doll, twisting it open with a sense of urgency. Yet a third face greeted my confused features. It was that of…Alexander! It had the same thin face and the same dark goatee. It also possessed the same serious eyes, both questioning and mocking me. I felt that either I was hallucinating or that someone was playing a monstrous joke upon me. I don’t know why I didn’t drop the doll, or throw it to the ground. I was transfixed with dread, and yet, this Matryoshka didn’t fill me with the same sense of revulsion that the other two had given me.

  I couldn’t prevent myself from opening the third doll. As I twisted it ajar, I imagined that I could hear Alexander crying out in pain. This particular doll didn’t open quite so easily. I pulled with all my might, until it finally gave way, popping as it divulged its secrets. A strange sight greeted me as I viewed the interior of the doll.

  “Well, well, Natasha…you got the missing piece of the puzzle there, honey,” A familiar voice addressed me from behind. I quickly turned, startled by the unexpected surprise of an unwelcome visitor in my room. As I spun around, the wooden doll accidentally dropped to the floor. Quick as a cat, the man snatched it in his hands before it could land on the ground. I was now well-acquainted with those slimy hands. They belonged to Detective Paulie Dante.

  I was deeply offended by his appearance. “What you doing in room?” I demanded of him. “How dare you take this liberty? I am having rights…I know this,” I informed him.

  Dante looked amused. He juggled the Russian doll with his fingers, looking like some practiced circus performer. “You’d be surprised the kinda’ liberties I take, baby,’ he said. He looked down at the Matryoshka doll with interest. “Right now I’m kinda’ liberating the truth from the fiction,” he remarked. Dante tapped a stubby finger to the side of his sweaty forehead. “Funny thing ‘bout truth,” he said with a smirk. “It’s like the missing ingredient to my Ma’s Tiramisu. You can try and substitute something else for it, but sooner or later you gonna’ need the real thing,” he taunted me.

  I placed my hands on my hips in disapproval. I had recovered from the shock of his unexpected appearance, and was now quite angry. “I think you got lot of ‘splaining to do, Lucy,” I said sarcastically.

  Paulie Dante seemed taken aback by my sudden show of confidence. His oily forehead wrinkled with annoyance. “What you talking ‘bout, Sony?” he asked with consternation in his voice.

  “Aunt Harriet is being missing just now. How this fit into your puzzle?” I challenged the detective. “And how is it you are appearing at 69 Keeney Avenue same moment as disappearance? I accused him, pointing a finger at him as I said this.

  Paulie Dante looked genuinely confused. “Fuggetaboudit! That old broad from the contest?” he asked incredulously. “Who you think let me in here to investigate?” Dante scratched his head, obviously attempting to make sense of this news.

  I nearly knocked him over in my excitement over this revelation. “You saw Harriet? When you see her?” I demanded of him. Dante stepped back, a frown betraying itself upon his features. “You freaking kidding me?” he asked. “She let me in here ‘bout an hour ago. She told me she got stuff to do up in Vladimir’s room, and left me to conduct my investigation. Strange old broad,” he added.

  My mind raced, as I tried to process this new information. I well knew the room that he was talking about. It was the only place in the house that I had never been to, with the exception of Alexander’s room. The story that Father Nicolai had told me concerning its history had alarmed me greatly. I had passed by it several times since learning of its dark history, yet the feelings of terror and dread had never left me whenever I chanced to approach it. And that little green clay figure continued to guard its entrance, as it had for decades. I wasn’t sure if it really resembled the face of Vladimir; I had never met him, nor ever seen a picture of Alexander’s grandfather. I only knew that it bore a striking similarity to the devilish features of my tormentor, Ivan Pavlovich.

  Dante’s attention returned to the wooden Russian doll he still held in his hands. He seemed to fondle it lewdly as he examined it more closely. “Get outta’ here!” he exclaimed. “This thing is old. Probably worth a few bucks on E-bay. But hey, I think there’s a detail here needing more investigating,” he declared, sticking his fingers inside of the hollow of the Matryoshka. He perused its contents, smiling cruelly with satisfaction as he did so.

  In my concern for Harriet, I had forgotten what I had just found inside of the doll, right before the appearance of Paulie Dante. My stomach turned in knots as I pondered the implications of my discovery. I now wished that I had had time to hide this discovery; Detective Paulie Dante was the last person I wanted to view it. But no detail seemed too small to escape his beady eyes.

  “Well, what we got here?” he asked. He pulled the contents out of the doll; they unraveled as he did so, seeming to sparkle by the light of the overhanging lamp. Dante held it up with both hands, scrutinizing it with a veteran policeman’s experience. Now that the object was out of the doll, it seemed to overpower everything else in the room.

  It was a necklace. It had five bows, each own made up of gold and diamonds, forming the basic structure of the jewelry. At the center of each bow was a large green emerald. This necklace was so beautiful, that I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. I felt an overwhelming urge to snatch it from Paulie Dante and wear it around my own neck.

  Dante whistled out loud. He chuckled as he fingered the precious stones of the necklace. A look of triumph displayed itself upon his feature. “Ever seen this chunk of stones before?” he questioned me. It was now my turn to be taken aback. To be honest, there was something vaguely familiar about this piece of jewelry. It was as if I had seen it in some history book, or
beheld it in some old photograph back in Russia.

  Dante leered at me, looking like he was enjoying every moment of this little game he was playing. He stepped closer to me, inching forward until his small, olive-skinned face was opposite my own.

  “I told you I was a stickler for the details, Sonia,” he reminded me. “See, your Aunt Harriet informed me that there was something missing from Nicholas Pavlovich’s room. Something valuable, that had been in the family for years. Wanna’ guess what that something was?” he said tauntingly, waving the necklace in my face as he mocked me with it. I pulled away from him, his garlic breath offending me just as much as his hateful words.

  “I no take this…I don’t!” I defended myself. Dante smirked at this comment. “Oh, I believe you, honey. Problem is, we got the detail of this stolen necklace to deal with. Like I told you, the truth is something hard to substitute,” he informed me. “We got two missing people, and a piece of evidence linked to them shows up in your possession. What you planning to cook up to answer for this, Sony?” he asked.

  I was speechless. Instead of pulling on my earlobe as I usually did, I now rubbed my hands together, desperate for a little warmth and comfort. What did all of this mean? Why was I being accused of these horrible things? I had never felt so alone in my life.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Dante?” A familiar voice boomed from behind me. I turned, expecting to see Alexander, my knight there to rescue me. But as I contemplated my hero’s face, I quickly realized that it wasn’t Alexander at all.

  It was Ivan.

  Paulie Dante tried to keep control of the situation. “I’m conducting an investigation here, Mr. Pavlovich. I’d advise you not to interfere,” he said with a hint of fear in his voice.

  Ivan’s eyes gleamed with malice, much as they had at Harriet that first day I had come to the house. He looked down at his watch; he then returned his gaze upon Paulie Dante. Ivan smiled, the wicked grin of a lion that is about to devour its prey.

  “Yes, I warrant you are conducting a thorough investigation,” Ivan remarked. “Speaking of warrants, I assume that you have one?” he suddenly demanded of the detective.

  Paulie Dante didn’t look quite as cocky as he had a few minutes before. He reached into his pockets, nervously searching them for the needed document. Instead, he found a cigarette. He placed it between his lips, but put the wrong end into his mouth. He spat it out upon the floor, and began to desperately pull his pockets out of his jacket. Finally, he retrieved an official-looking piece of paper from the depths of his coat. He handed this to Ivan, gingerly and begrudgingly.

  “There you go, Mr. Pavlovich,” Dante stated. “I got the right to search these premises, on the suspicion of murder,” he said, giving me an intense look of dislike.

  Ivan slowly examined the warrant. He held it up to the light, quickly reading the text to himself. And then, he tossed it at Dante’s feet with a look of contempt.

  “Yes, Detective Dante. Everything about that warrant is in order,” he admitted. “It was even signed by your police chief to make it official,” Ivan conceded.

  Dante grinned. He bent over and picked the document off of the floor. He then stuffed it into his jacket pocket, wiping the sweat off his brow as he did so.

  “Now you talkin’ my language,” the detective said happily. He started to walk in my direction. But Ivan quickly moved his large, hulking frame to intercept Dante’s progress. He forced his massive head down upon Dante’s smaller one, until they were face-to-face. Paulie squirmed uncomfortably under the intense glare of Ivan Pavlovich.

  “My great-grandfather was a landowner in old Czarist Russia,” Ivan said. “He owned thousands of acres of prime farmland. He also owned the serfs that worked the fields of this land. They were legally regarded as souls, ones that were to do my great-grandfather’s bidding. And he owned many souls,” he said with emphasis.

  Dante once again wiped the sweat off of his forehead. He attempted to move his head away from Ivan’s, but was instead pressed into a corner of the room. This time, the detective looked to me for assistance. He would get no sympathy from my corner.

  “I am fortunate enough to own more land than my great-grandfather,” Ivan informed him. “And I own more souls than he ever did. The mayor, the police chief: even your own, Dante. Now, take your corrupted soul and get out of my family’s house! His voice boomed with fury.

  Dante jumped at the sound of Ivan’s shout. Without another word, he started to slither out of the room. Before he could escape, Ivan snatched the necklace out of his hands. Dante began to protest, but one look from Ivan made him reconsider. The detective was almost at the door when he paused for a moment, stopping at the place where I was standing. He handed me back the Russian doll, which he had somehow managed to conceal from Ivan.

  “This mystery is like the doll,” he said. “Each level keeps opening to another one. And it ain’t a necklace at the center of it,” he said in a low voice. “It’s you, Sony,” he whispered.

  I gulped, but resisted the urge to pull on my earlobe. I mustered my courage and looked Paulie Dante straight in the eye.

  “Missing ingredient in your Tiramisu is not truth,” I informed him. “It is being love. You don’t have it, and that make you second-rate chef and third-rate human being,” I told him.

  “Crazy Russian broad,” he muttered under his breath. He skulked out of the room. Both Ivan and I stood quietly as we heard the sound of Paulie Dante slamming the front door, then driving away in his car.

  Ivan’s expression changed instantly. He smiled; he then held out an enormous hand to me. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I accepted it with some hesitation. He gently patted my hand, holding it tenderly in his own. Without saying a word, he led me out of my room, directing me through the hallway. He didn’t stop until we had arrived at the dining room. Ivan pulled out a chair for me to sit upon; I obliged, scared yet surprisingly grateful to him for his kindness. He sauntered over to the dark, wooden liquor cabinet. He retrieved a bottle of Russian vodka from the cabinet, pouring the clear liquid into two small glasses. He silently offered one to me, but I shook my head.

  “A drink, Sonia…we must toast our new friendship,” Ivan declared.

  I continued to shake my head. “I am being grateful, but I not drink,” I informed him.

  Ivan scoffed at my words. “Come now, Sonia! You’re a white Russian and I’m a black Russian; the only thing separating us is this vodka. You want?” he asked again. But I shook my head once more.

  Ivan shrugged his shoulders. He raised the glass of vodka in the air, apparently intent on making some kind of toast. “To the Czar,” he said with a solemn demeanor.

  My eyes widened with surprise. I started to speak, flabbergasted by Ivan’s words. “I…thought you were Jews. The Czar was horrible to the Jews! Why are you drinking to him?” I asked.

  Ivan’s bearded face betrayed laughter and mockery. His large eyes twinkled with mischief. He seemed to take great delight in confusing me.

  “Oh, there seems to be some question as to the true identity of the Pavlovich family,” he responded. “Are we Jews?” he said rhetorically. He pointed to a small Byzantine picture of Jesus that hung over the liquor cabinet. “Wasn’t He Jewish as well?” Ivan mocked me.

  I crossed myself, shuddering at his blasphemous speech. “This making me uncomfortable, this talk,” I informed him.

  Ivan took my hand once more. But this time his touch wasn’t gentle. He held my hand tightly, so tightly that it hurt. I tried to pull my hand back, but he was too strong. He continued to keep my hand prisoner as he stared straight into my eyes. I could smell the strong odor of cologne upon him; it was an overpowering stench that made my eyes water. Ivan’s red beard was close to my face. He reminded me of some ancient devil from an old woodcarving.

  “Our talk is about to become even more uncomfortable, Sonia,” he stated. Ivan pulled the necklace from the Matryoshka with one free hand, and deftly placed it around my neck. He di
d this as he continued to keep a firm grip on my hand. But then, he dropped it without warning. I rubbed my hand to make the blood circulate properly again. Then I reached for the necklace, intending to remove it immediately.

  “No!” Ivan commanded. He pushed my hands down from my neck. I acquiesced, too intimidated by his temper to resist. He began to pace back and forth in the dining room, looking like a caged dog that can’t wait to be free to run outside.

  “What all this mean, Mr. Ivan?” I pleaded. “I just simple Russian girl who wants to be chef…I don’t want no part of all this,” I indicated the necklace, which was becoming very uncomfortable around my neck. The room suddenly seemed tiny to me; I felt claustrophobic, the paintings on the walls seemed to come to life. I glanced at the picture with the Indian who had killed the buffaloes. He was staring straight at me, and appeared to be fingering the crude necklace around his own neck. I could almost smell the sour odor of blood upon his spear. I turned my eyes away from the painting, and greeted those of Ivan Pavlovich. They held no warmth or kindness now.

  “Listen Sonia,” Ivan commanded me. “I don’t particularly care what you want or don’t want. I’ve already requested you to find a certain item for me. You’ve failed me, but that doesn’t concern me at the moment. For you see, Detective Dante has been kind enough to place into my possession the means to recover that very same item,” he informed me.

  I reached for the necklace around my neck. Its precious stones seemed to throb hotly against my skin, burning like fire. I very much wanted to remove the jewelry, but feared the temper of Ivan more than the pain of the necklace.

  “Yes, Sonia,” Ivan’s voice seemed to penetrate my thoughts. “That necklace is the key to finding the Samovar. My brother Nicholas was able to hide it from me for years, as well as keeping its true meaning hidden as well,” he said cryptically.

  “Its true meaning?” I repeated blankly.

  Ivan glanced at his watch and then continued to pace back and forth. His large frame kept banging against the dining-room table, as the chairs rattled with his movements. Ivan appeared to become more animated with every passing second. I leaned against the liquor cabinet; I couldn’t help wishing for a little vodka now to settle my nerves.

  “Da, you little waster of my time,” he hotly replied. “There is a meaning; that is not just a pretty piece of jewelry. That necklace you are wearing around your peasant neck was once worn by the Empress Alexandra on the day of Czar Nicholas the Second’s coronation. It dropped from her neck and fell upon the floor that same day, shortly after the ceremony. It was regarded at the time as an evil omen. And perhaps it was,” Ivan said, his voice heavy with irony.

  I shook my head, tears coming to my eyes. I could barely make him out through my misty haze. “I don’t want this thing, it has evil soul,” I declared. Despite my fear, I was determined to defy him.

  Ivan jeered. “You have no idea, Sonia Godunov. Is your God enough? We shall soon see. But anyway, this necklace was given to a friend of the Romanov family for safe keeping. He was more than a good friend to them; a holy man, a healer---he was a man who had gained ultimate knowledge of God by exploring the black depths of hell. Can you not guess who once possessed this necklace?” he taunted me.

  I froze. The words wouldn’t come to my lips, yet I somehow knew whom he was referring to. He was the wandering hermit, the ascetic holy man. The person we Russians knew as the evil one.

  “Rasputin!” I cried. I had finally found my voice, though it was shaky with fear. “This cursed necklace being in his possession?” I inquired.

  “Yes, little one,” Ivan replied. He purred like a cat, one that enjoyed playing with its captured prey. “I don’t believe in all of this black magic nonsense myself; at least not to the extent that my dear brother Nicholas did. But I do know that before he was murdered, Rasputin trusted my grandfather with the safekeeping of this necklace,” he watched me as he let these words sink in to my mind.

  I tried to escape the room; Ivan caught me, pushing me down upon the same chair I had sat on before. I rubbed my hands with frustration. I was experiencing a different kind of fear now; not of the unnatural, but of a cruel, vicious bully who was used to hurting people and forcing them to do his bidding. Underneath that veneer of respectability of his was a brutish monster. And I was now his prisoner.

  “That necklace is now yours, Sonia,” he informed me. “I have learned that you are the one who must utilize its powers to find what I most desire,” he said, in a much calmer, quieter tone. Ivan now resumed using that silky, charming voice that he had used on me on previous occasions.

  “Come, Sonia my friend,” he said with a smile. “We are friends, aren’t we? Who was it that paid for your trip to America? Did you really think that Nicholas could afford that kind of money? And who got Paulie Dante off of your back? And…” he crossed his arms as he spoke, smiling with a look of complicity. “And, who arranged your little victory in the baking contest? Like I’ve said before, I own many souls. And they all do my bidding,” he said.

  I suddenly remembered the look that the lady judge had given Ivan on that special day. I knew…somehow I had always known. I was no chef; I was only a young peasant girl, a puppet of this master villain. And he had been pulling my strings from the very beginning. But then, a feeling of anger and defiance rose in my heart. I would not let him manipulate me any longer.

  “No!” I shouted. “I am not helping you!” I declared. I leaped up from the table, knocking over the chair and startling Ivan. I ran into the kitchen and raced to the refrigerator door. I viewed my award through hot tears of shame, the same award that Harriet had so proudly hung up for me. Then I ripped it off the door, returning to the dining room with the document in my hands.

  Ivan was seemingly stunned by my act of defiance. It took him a moment, but he slowly regained his composure. He smiled once again, and somehow managed to not look at his watch. “Now Sonia, you really shouldn’t be so disappointed at my interference,” he said warmly. “With my help and support, you truly can become a chef here in America. You just require someone who can get you the finest training and the right contacts. And that person is me,” he declared.

  I held up the blue ribbon, the same one that had meant so much to me. It had become tainted by the corruption of Ivan Pavlovich; I was disgusted by the mere sight of it. I angrily tore it in half, throwing the pieces at Ivan with defiance.

  “That is what I am thinking of your help,” I told him. “I am not one of your souls,” I informed him. I smiled, though my knees were shaking with fear.

  Ivan’s face turned red with anger. He grabbed one of the vodka glasses and smashed it against the wall. I was petrified, but I held my ground. I was determined not to let him intimidate me any longer. For a moment, I thought that Ivan might physically attack me. I met his furious stare with a determined one of my own. He became quiet for a moment, apparently in thought as to his next move. Then, unrepentantly, he smiled. But as I had noticed in the past, his eyes weren’t smiling.

  “So, the little peasant girl has spirit,” he said in a more friendly manner. “Not bad, not bad at all. But, I think that you will help me all the same, Sonia. Have you not wondered where Alexander has been during your ordeal this evening? A little strange, his not coming to your aid, don’t you think?” he mocked me.

  Ivan was correct. I had been puzzled by Alexander’s absence from the evening’s events. I hadn’t seen him since I left him in Harriet’s room; I had been forced to face the two terrors of Paulie Dante and Ivan Pavlovich without his support. Where was he? Was he cowering in his room? Had he vanished along with Harriet and Nicholas, into some deep abyss? Why hadn’t he come to rescue me?

  “Where is your white knight indeed?” Ivan replied to my unspoken question. It was uncanny how he could read my mind. I needed to gather all of my strength to fight him. “Oh, I am aware of your little crush on my brother,” he chuckled. “Ah, young love,” he mocked me. “A passionate flame that burns bright
ly, then extinguishes itself into wisps of smoke,” he said with false irony.

  My ears became red with embarrassment. “What you know of love? In your world, things bought and sold with money,” I declared.

  Ivan raised his eyebrows, as if he were actually offended by my statement. “Oh, are we bathing in the anti-Semitic waters today? Well, no matter if we are. You’ve no doubt been expecting my little brother to arrive and save you from the horrible Ivan the Terrible. And there’s no doubt that he would have…had I not made other arrangements,” he said, a tone of deadly seriousness in his voice.

  I began to panic. “What you do with Alexander?” I demanded. “He your brother,’ I reminded him.

  Ivan shook his head. There was no mercy in his demeanor now. “He is an obstacle, the same as you, Harriet and Nicholas. But don’t worry Sonia, I think that it is time for you to be reunited with your lover,” he said cruelly. He grabbed me by the hand, once more reminding me of his brute strength.

  Ivan dragged me back into Harriet’s room. It was just as I had left it earlier in the evening. But there was one exception; Alexander was now lying down on the bed, his arms stretched out lifelessly, his eyes wide open as if he were dead. I screamed, quickly running to the side of the bed where his body hung awkwardly over the edge.

  “Oh, Alexander!” I cried. “Don’t be dead, no be dead,” I pleaded. I stroked his face, desperate for a sign of life. I carefully placed my ear against his chest; I couldn’t tell if there was a heartbeat, though his body still felt warm. The only heartbeat I could hear was one I fancied was my own.

  “Oh, don’t be afraid, Sonia,” Ivan’s beastly voice reassured me. “Little brother Alexander is still in the world of the living. Whether or not he stays there depends upon your choice now,” he informed me with a twinkle in his eye.

  I spun around and angrily confronted him. I attempted to hit him with my tiny fists, but his enormous hand easily protected him from my fury. “What you do to him?” I demanded. “Why he looking dead? Is he hurt?” I asked.

  “It’s just a little bit of Russian magic,” Ivan informed me, a self-satisfied smirk upon his features. “A little potion passed down from generation to generation. Nicholas is not the only Pavlovich who is familiar with the Black Arts. What I gave Alexander simulates death; however, it is only the appearance of death. He will wake up tomorrow none the worse for the experience,” he informed me.

  Pure rage surged throughout my body. I had never wanted to hurt another person like I now wanted to hurt Ivan Pavlovich. I believed that if I now possessed that farm sickle, I could make myself use it to harm this evil man.

  “Here is what will happen, Sonia,” Ivan said in a cold voice. “Tomorrow you will go about your business as usual. Everything will appear to be normal. Then, in the early evening, as the sun is setting upon the fine town of West Hartford, you will use that necklace to lead you to the Samovar. You will find it, and then you will give it to me,” he ordered me.

  “What if I can’t find?” I pleaded. “I am not understanding how necklace will help find Samovar,” I added.

  “What I have learned from Nicholas’ research suggests that the necklace will lead you to it,” he replied. “Tomorrow is the start of the Russian White Nights. Even though it will be dusk, you will have some sunlight to see by as you search. I don’t yet know why this phenomenon will occur in West Hartford; it is usually unique to the Russian city of St. Petersburg. What I do know is that this will happen tomorrow evening. Nicholas was a fool, but at least he has proven to be a useful one,” he said.

  I pointed an accusing finger at Ivan. “Was it being you that make Nicholas and Harriet disappear? I demanded. I now felt that this monster was capable of anything.

  In reply, Ivan looked at his watch. “Don’t be so foolish, Sonia,” he responded in annoyance. “They are my family!” He looked eager to change the subject. “Just remember, tomorrow evening, you are to use the necklace to find that Samovar,” he commanded. He paced nervously across the floor, once again banging into the dining table.

  “And if I refuse?” I challenged him. Though I was still afraid of him, I was still determined to show him I was not intimidated.

  Ivan brought his face right up to my own. He stared at me with a look of danger and menace, one that suggested horrible things that were yet to come. I suddenly felt cold, a chilliness that seemed to flow from Ivan himself.

  He regarded me with malice in his eyes. “If you don’t perform this task tomorrow, Alexander will die,” he told me bluntly. “And I promise you Sonia, it will be a painful death,” he added.

  I turned my head away to avoid his grave look. When I turned back, I was surprised to discover that he was gone. I ran into the kitchen, and then searched the living room, but it was to no avail. I peeked outside the window, but could see no trace of his car. Ivan had managed to vanish into thin air. For a moment I couldn’t help thinking that he might have disappeared into one of the mysterious paintings on the wall.

  I returned to Harriet’s room, where Alexander lay immobile upon the bed. I moved him so that he was resting more comfortably, a pillow propped up under his black-haired head, a blanket to keep him warm. When I had done everything that I could think of to make him more at ease, I reached over and stroked his head.

  “Good night, Alexander,” I whispered quietly. I gave him a kiss on the cheek, observing that his breathing was becoming steadier. I turned off the light in Harriet’s room and returned to my own.

  I performed my nightly ritual of locking my door. I put on my nightdress and pulled back the heavy purple covers before slipping under them. It was becoming warmer at night with the approaching summer, yet I still found it a comfort to hide under the blankets for protection. Before switching off the light on my nightstand, I took one last glance at the Russian dolls on the shelf. They were gone! They seemed to have been mysteriously replaced with the bells from the living room. I switched off the light, and was greeted by the sound of tolling bells. They seemed to play a tune like that of a Russian folk song. I placed my hands over my ears and held them tight. But strangely enough, for the first time since I had come to 69 Keeney Avenue, I could hear no trace of dogs barking.