Portrait in an Oval Frame. Chapters 17-23

Chapter Seventeen
Lost Hope

     Eduardo returned to his hotel room and lay down, feeling an immense sadness. Thoughts of Rebecca, Igor and their baby pulled him into a deep, depressive mood. How could he be related to these people and to Alex? Or was he? And yet, with all his intuition, he felt that he and Alex were like brothers, kindred spirits. He hoped that they were related, but he still couldn’t imagine any tangible connections. Rarely in his busy life had he allowed himself to ruminate over the past. However, this unexpected encounter with Alex turned his life upside down.
     Although Eduardo lived by impulse, accepting each moment as it came, only his music and art were permanent in his life. Upon his return to Italy from that memorable trip, he felt suddenly incomplete, lost, lonely. He saw Nora’s image everywhere he went, in every woman he met. His fame didn’t bring him happiness—something was still missing in his life, and this missing part was—love.
     And yet, looking now deep down inside his soul, he realized that it was Nora who inspired him to find the meaning of life and to rediscover his art. He learned anew that to live meant to express your inner feelings and emotions in creativity, to go beyond the boundaries, and not only to create art, but in the process to rediscover your own soul. It seemed to him that everything he had previously done or lived for had been a lie, and that only now he found the truth, the real meaning of his existence.
     Probably Alex’s story had stirred up Eduardo’s own old memories. The rest of the afternoon he mused fitfully, trying to remember details of Alex’s story and to find a path to his own past.

*  *  *  *  *
     In the evening, the weather worsened, and an autumn drizzle fell upon the earth like a thin, lacy tunic. Eduardo took a walk around the hotel and only then went to the restaurant to meet Alex. The streets were crowded, but he hardly saw the people around him. He could still imagine those innocents who perished from the surface of the earth through the cruelty of Nazis. Eduardo entered to the restaurant earlier, way before six, so he had enough time to order a drink. To his surprise, Alex appeared on time, looking suddenly aged and tired.
     “I need a drink.” He sat down heavily across from Eduardo.
     “You looked better in the morning. What happened to you? Did you have a nap? Actually, I have already ordered drinks. What would you like for dinner?”
     “I’ll have the same. I guess we have the same taste in many things. Don’t we?”
     “Then, it’s a deal.” Eduardo placed the order and turned back to his previous question. “So, what happened? Did you get some sleep?”
     “No, not really. I had time to think about things that I had scarcely thought about before we met. Look, Eduardo, I have to be brief. My wife will be arriving tomorrow morning, right before the opening of the exhibition. I want to finish my story. We are still far from solving our mystery, although I see such an unusual interlocking of events. Where did we stop?”
     A dark shadow crossed his face. He looked as if his thoughts were in disarray, but he began his narration: “On October the sixth, 1943, the Russian Army, along with local guerillas, went on the offensive…”

*  *  *  *  *
     On October the sixth, 1943, the Russian Army along with local guerillas went on the offensive for the liberation of Nevel. In spite of fierce resistance from the German Army, it took only five days to scour all the invaders from the land. A sweeping and full-scale offensive of the Russian Army allowed it in a short time to destroy the powerful German fortifications and unexpectedly to take Nevel back from the Nazis. The Nevel operation of October 6 – October 10, 1943, had been one of the briefest offensives of the war, but the heavy battles for the total liberation of Nevel from the Germans lasted until January of 1944.
     During that time, the German Army, in a panic, packed up everything they could carry and hastily scurried away from the town. Along the way, they drove the young people, men and women out of the villages to work in forced labor camps in Germany. Strangely enough, some locals and peasants from the surrounding villages willingly joined the Nazis.
     Fear, horror of the unknown and anxiety drove people from their homes. A growing crowd of people, hungry, dust-covered and ragged, stretched out along the muddy roads, moving together in confluent streams. Everyone had their own reasons to leave: some feared to stay because they had been helping the SS to get rid of Jews and communists, but some were leaving because they hated the Soviet regime and were afraid of its oppression.
     A panic seized the people as a long procession dragged out along Vitebsk Avenue. In a sense, it was similar to the procession of Jewish people walking to their execution only a short while ago. Exhausted and frustrated, the crowd moved farther and farther from their homes. There were many sick and wounded among them, but they had no medications or medical help. The villages they passed seemed to be deserted. The windows and doors were shut, and only hungry stray dogs and cats wandered around looking for food. The cold stars, like small fireflies, twinkled in the distant sky as the crowd walked calmly down the dirty road to their unknown fate.
     Meanwhile, other inhabitants began to return to their demolished homes and utterly changed landscape. Little by little, the town was coming back to life. The burning cars with the German swastika were still there, and some buildings still carried signs written in German. Torn posters, proclaiming German victory, were scattered about the streets, and local people walked on them indifferently. The bridge over the river Emenka had been destroyed and was sadly reminiscent of a lamenting creature falling to its knees. Still burning German tanks lay on their sides in ominous positions, like huge black spiders protruding from the surface of the river.
     In the middle of the square, famously named after Karl Marx, his grandiose statue had been completely demolished, and his huge head with the curly beard now rested at the foot of the pedestal, a powerful symbol of the destruction and folly of war.
     Out of the ashes, the town began the mysterious process of rebuilding, and its inhabitants lived now with a timid feeling of hope.

*  *  *  *  *
     The following summer, after a long and enervating trip, Eliza and Samuel returned to their home, hoping against hope to find Rebecca and a message from their sons.
     They arrived on foot late in the day. Through the dusk, they could see the welter of ruined buildings which, uprooted from their soil, had become merely a pile of loose stones. Only the vestiges of a few houses and the walls of their small synagogue still remained untouched. The city looked devastated, dingy and drab, like a human being, who after enduring great suffering, was only now on the way to recovery. A brisk wind scattered and swirled pieces of debris all over their narrow street.
     Eliza and Samuel knew nothing about Rebecca’s fate and were looking forward to seeing her and their grandchild, but they saw no signs of a living soul, no word of them. Their house looked so lonesome near the old cemetery amidst the debris of their ruined hopes. The windows were nailed shut with plywood. The wild flowers bent their blooms down close to the ground, as if deep sorrow had pressed them down to earth.
     Samuel inserted his old key into the rusted keyhole. As he turned the key, it produced a mournful sound. He had to push the door hard before managing to open it. They crept into their dark dwelling and froze on the threshold. The dirty windows had been boarded up, and the feeble light could scarcely filter through them. They stood at the doorway as agonizing memories of their last days there rushed back. They heard the voices of their loved ones, felt their presence in the room but did not recognize the once familiar place.
     Although the house was empty, it was a total shambles, as if the war had tried to destroy everything that belonged to their past. The mirror, dangling awry, was coated with a thick layer of dust and had a crack right in the middle. The old cuckoo clock on the wall had frozen in the past, no longer ticking but staring at them, trying to reveal a deep secret, hidden behind the walls of this abandoned house. A pail, full of dead water, drawn from the well, stood in the kitchen, spreading a dank and acrid odor of mold. It felt as if life had deserted this house long time ago. During their absence, not only they, but their cozy, little house had grown older, darker and grimier. The scene made Eliza nauseated and brought her sheer misery. She stepped outside, unable to comprehend what she had just seen.
     “There is going to be a thunderstorm,” she muttered in a colorless voice, gulping back her tears. She sank heavily onto the steps, struggling to quell a sense of loss such as she had never experienced before.
     And indeed, from far away, a burst of thunder rocked the sky, and a slanting murk of rain fell upon the earth. Through the wall of rain, she saw the fast approaching night. And she sensed with growing dread the inevitability of what they were about to learn. With her mother’s heart, Eliza suddenly realized that this heavy rainfall was washing out her last hope of being reunited with her children.
     That same evening, after the thunder had rumbled away, the sky finally cleared up from the low floating clouds. Eliza and Samuel sat on the steps of their house, pondering their future. Eliza leaned against her husband’s shoulder, and he heard the loud beating of her heart.
     “We have to start our lives all over again. We have to stay alive to find our children. We can’t just sit here doing nothing. I can’t be at peace with myself until I know what has happened to them.”
     Her calm words swayed in the breeze, leaving only a tiny echo in the tree branches. Samuel put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Her pain interlocked and echoed with his own pain, and his own grief. They wanted to wake up from their horrific nightmare, to return to their happy past, as if the war and murder of innocent people had never taken place on this earth.
     One week passed before they found out what had happened to their daughter and son-in-law. They also tried to find the whereabouts of Alek, their grandchild, but all their efforts led nowhere. They went from house to house, looking for someone who could tell them about the fate of their family. Some people were friendly, others didn’t want to talk.
     At the end of the week, as night fell heavily over the town, they heard a cautious knock at the door. It was their neighbor, an old Jewish woman, whose whole family had been executed at Blue Cottage, but she had miraculously escaped, hiding in the cold basement of her house, until she learned that the German troops had left town. She would go outside late at night and search cautiously around for food and water. On one of those nights, she saw with her own eyes the burning church and Igor’s mad race toward death. As for the child, she heard that he had died during the church fire. That’s all she could tell. 
     Countless times Eliza walked numbly through the city to Blue Cottage. The mass grave was now heavily covered with tall grass and wild flowers. She would bring fresh-cut flowers and put them at the foot of the grave. The red blooms of poppies were scattered around like bloodstains of those who had been murdered there. And yet, for Eliza it became such a peaceful place—a place of seclusion. Bent over with sorrow, she spent days sitting alone near the mound, talking to Rebecca and to others who had perished there. On windy days, she heard their voices, and she cried, thanking God for giving her a chance to talk to her daughter and to ask her forgiveness.
     Returning home, she would walk along the river, unable to recognize the beauty of her beloved landscape. At a slow pace, like a ghost, she roamed stealthily about the familiar places, moving away from the chanting melody of the dark river that looped along the banks, the same river that had swallowed up so many innocent lives, including her son-in-law. The lull of its dark waters, carrying the mystery of human tragedy, was maddening for Eliza.
     As for Samuel, he passed most of his time rebuilding their house, reading and praying. He too could not get out of his head the execution of Nevel’s Jews, the untimely death of Rebecca and Igor’s suicide. Now, his memories often re-turned to the past, questioning his decision to leave Rebecca. He wished he had stayed and shared the fate of the others—he found it meaningless to go on living like that. The only light in his aimless existence were his sons and the hope to see them again one day.
     A month after they had settled in their house, a strange letter arrived from Leon. It was a short message dated June, 1942. He wrote that they were both fine and were looking forward to the victorious end of the war. This small note bolstered some of their lost hopes.

Chapter Eighteen
A Beggar-woman

     Two months after their return, they heard rumors that a woman—a stranger to the town, with a small child, had been wandering aimlessly through the streets, begging for food and water. It was wartime, everything around them had been destroyed. The Nazis were nearby and Stalin was in power. People were afraid of their own shadows. There were virtually no men left in town. Winter that year happened to be extremely rigorous, with an abundance of hail, sleet and snow. 
     One night, the hail turned into a heavy snowfall. The wind blew in great gusts, and its shrieks reminded of the loud wailing of untamed beasts. The wind fiercely shook the windowpanes, broke the tree branches. Piles of snow blanketed all the roads, like clean white bandages on the bleeding wounds of the earth. Benumbed with cold, a bedraggled woman dressed in rags, with a child in her arms, walked blindly through the deserted streets, asking for food and shelter. Wrapped in her torn, filthy clothes, she looked like a beggar.
     It was already after midnight, and a heavy hail was knocking on the roofs of the houses along with a wailing northern wind. In this weather the stranger reached Eliza’s house. They were not yet asleep. Eliza was cleaning the kitchen, and Samuel was reading the Torah aloud when they heard a feeble knock at the door. For a moment, Samuel was seized by sudden fear, but then he thought about his sons and rushed to open the door.
     A smile of gratitude radiated across the woman’s peaked and pallid face when Samuel opened the door to her. Shivering with cold, the woman with a child in her arms stopped on the threshold in doubt. Their dirty tattered clothes were covered with ice and snow. The child, a boy with a haggard face, who was about a year old, looked scared and exhausted, and yet he didn’t cry. His eyes were closed, and his face was deadly pale. In spite of her dirty clothes and wan look, the woman appeared to be very young and beautiful. Great sadness and deep suffering emanated from her expressive, dark hazel eyes.
     “Please come in. It’s too cold to stand in the doorway.”
     Samuel took the child and gave him to Eliza. He rubbed the woman’s hands in his. They were so cold that she could hardly move her fingers.
     “You are so kind to me, but honestly, I am fine… just my son.” Her quiet words melted in the air like small snowflakes.
     “You can go to the kitchen, dear, while my wife heats a bath for you and your child, and then we will have supper. Don’t be afraid. We live alone, far from other houses, and will be happy to help you.”
     He saw that she was about to faint and, gently taking her by the hand, led the woman to the kitchen for a glass of hot tea.
     After having a bath and getting clean clothes that had belonged to Rebecca, the woman appeared in the dining room. Her wet, raven-black, curly hair spread out over her shoulders, and her small delicate features revealed her noble origin. There was a maidenly innocence and modesty about her, and yet something very magnetic and tragic in the way she looked and walked. She said that she was not hungry and asked only for a cup of hot milk and a piece of dry bread for her son and herself.
     Upon finishing her supper, the woman put her son to bed and sat quietly by the window, peering through it at the mound of earth, buried in the pure whiteness. She cried soundlessly and seemed to be remote and shy. No one knew why she was crying, but it was easy to see from her sad eyes and deep circles under them that she had suffered immensely. Feeling her grief, Eliza and Samuel did not ask her any questions. In fact, Eliza made a bed for her and her child in the same room where Rebecca used to sleep and then brought out their old album, full of family photos, in order to make the woman feel comfortable, like a part of their family. The woman was extremely touched by their kindness and, wiping her tears, warmly embraced Eliza. She then sat down at the table with the family to look at the old photographs.

*  *  *  *  *
     Alex stopped talking, cleared his throat and sipped some wine.
     Eduardo hung upon every word, attempting to comprehend the story and make sense of it. Suddenly, it crossed his mind to ask: “Was the woman a soothsayer?”
     “Well, actually, I have not finished. She was not. I heard this story from my father many times, and every time it gave me a chill. I had hoped that one day I would be able to unravel the mystery of that woman, who had changed our lives, but events turned differently. The mystery was untangled by itself, unexpectedly... Look, Eduardo, we are both swept by emotion. It’s getting late. Why not save the rest of our story for tomorrow? I’ll continue it at breakfast and tell you all I know about this mysterious woman.”

Chapter Nineteen
A Sleepless Night

     It was almost midnight, but Alex still tossed restlessly in bed from side to side. Several times he drifted into somnolence but was awakened by queer images. He was thinking about his life devoted to art, women that often appeared in his life and easily disappeared without leaving any impression. For a long time, he lay in bed sleepless, submerged in the depth of his thoughts, trying to get rid of unimportant ones and to hold on to the important events of his life, as though he wanted to see the whole picture, not just some small and insignificant fragments. Still, the whole picture fell apart; some parts of the chain were missing, the most needed ones. He wanted to dredge up memories of his relationship with Eleanor—the story of their love affair, but could not remember anything special. For him, their love story consisted of stormy emotions, ascents and descents, prolonged conversations, deep understanding and stubborn misunderstanding, the complete, merging of their souls, and then long and painful disconnection.
     Eleanor was his student, a strange girl with absentminded, inscrutable eyes, usually gliding from one face to another, as if she were blind or perfectly absorbed in her inner world. Nevertheless, she listened to his lectures hungrily devouring his every word.

*  *  *  *  *
    He well remembered the day he first noticed Eleanor in the front row of the auditorium. Alex carefully scanned the overcrowded hall, stepped out from the podium and began to pace back and forth, mentally preparing for his lecture.
     Meanwhile, the girl scrutinized him closely, exchanging words with her friend. He watched her from the corner of his eye. Approaching her bench, he noticed that the girl had made a sharp drawing of his face. He thought that in this pencil sketch he had quite a devilish expression and looked older than in real life. She saw a sign of disappointment on his face and began to examine him again. Alex knew he looked much younger than his forties, being athletically built, broad-shouldered, with keen, green-blue eyes, burning with curiosity. He had refined, expressive features and an oval-shaped face with no wrinkles. His chin bore signs of stubbornness and a strong will. His hair had barely noticeable touches of gray at the temples. His curly, masterly clipped beard was totally gray, and that probably revealed his age. In Eleanor’s drawing of him, he looked very attractive, but at the same time he saw something very unappealing or perhaps even unpleasant in his appearance.
     Being totally absorbed in her sketch, Eleanor no longer paid any attention to him. Professor Gold smiled sarcastically at such an unflattering portrait and began his lecture as always with a question addressed directly to his audience.
     “I’ve just noticed there are some talented artists in our audience,” he said with a furtive smile, “and I’d like them to answer my question. Can you compare the birth of a painting with the birth of a child?” He looked at Eleanor, who at that very moment put down her pencil, and was seemingly revved up.
    His strong deep voice immediately affected his other students. For some time, a total silence wrapped the auditorium. Alex looked around and repeated his question again.
     “I want to know your opinion if we can compare the birth of a painting with the birth of a child?”
     At once, all of them began talking, interrupting one another. Alex waited patiently, allowing them to express their thoughts, and then lifted his hand, signaling for them to be quiet. Gradually, the audience became silent again, and he continued, trying to avoid Eleanor’s persistent gaze.
     “The history of every single painting is no less mystery-ous or interesting than the life of an artist himself. I hope you agree with me.” He went back to the podium.
     “In my opinion, the birth of a painting can easily be com-pared with the birth of a child. Every painting comes into the world through the creative and painful agony of the artist. His creative impetus, his talent, his genius, the ascent of his spirit do not disappear but are transmuted into his work—his child—and remain there for centuries, for the lifetime of his creation in order to make his work eternal and his name un-forgettable. The creative energy he applies to his work lives forever. The process of creativity itself is so incredibly complicated. With every movement of his brush and its every stroke, a new portrait is born. We can feel the heart beating, the blood flowing through the veins of his sitters. A new face is captured forever in a heavy golden frame. Whose heart is beating under the silk and velvet draperies of those luxurious clothes? Is it the heart of a courtesan, a famous actress, a gentleman or it is the heart of the artist himself, who in-vested his own life in every marvel that he has created?”
     Alex paused and then continued, “During his nine years at the court of Charles I, Anthony Van Dyck executed more than thirty portraits of the English King, and three-hundred-fifty portraits of his noble attendees. Van Dyck died at the age of forty-three. The rumors spread that he died from extensive drinking and numerous love affairs.”
     Alex stopped talking for a minute to let the information sink in and glanced at Eleanor. She listened to him with her eyes closed, as if she were dreaming. At that very moment, she thought that he could probably enliven any subject of his lecture with his passionate discourse. He approached her and continued his thoughts, addressing them to her only.
     “To be precise, his title of court painter demanded highly intensive and constant labor. He longed to depict nature, to isolate himself from rich society life. His weary soul yearned for the peace and quietude that he could find only in nature. In my opinion, he died from selling his soul to the devil. Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
     He noticed that Eleanor opened her eyes and stared at him, obviously puzzled. He began to pace between the rows, disturbed by her intense gaze.
     “Later, when we’ll talk about his early work, you will be able to understand what I really mean by this statement. Painting portraits of the rich and famous exhausted him physically and spiritually. His dreams crashed. His soul died. He burned himself in his own unsatisfied fervor. It’s interesting to note that his subtle psychological and deep insight into the souls of his models had a dramatic effect on his portraits as if he had foreseen their tragic end, including the portraits of the English King, Charles I, himself, who was doomed to die at the guillotine. Later on, the same qualities of sensitive understanding of his sitter’s souls were evident in portraits of the Italian artist Amadeus Modigliani and the Russian painter Valentine Serov. I would like to cite the words of the French writer Honor; de Balzac: ‘He touched the sky while walking firmly on earth.’”
     Alex’s voice wobbled and he surveyed the auditorium until he met again the same attentive eyes of the girl in the first row. She didn’t avert her gaze and continued staring at him while thinking about his statement.
     He closed his notes and went to the screen to illustrate his point of view with some slides.

*  *  *  *  *
   What did he do wrong? Why did he have such an unhappy marriage, distant relations with his wife? Was it the difference in their age? She blamed him for the distance between them, his coldness and that he could not give her a child. She criticized his art for not being profound enough, and that he was selling his talent for money. She even tried to compare him to Van Dyck.
     Alex curled up under the blanket, closed his eyes, and slowly his dreams faded away. Somnolence fogged his memory, and just before daybreak he was soundly engulfed in slumber. A different dream, painted in bright colors, appeared in his imagination—distorted faces laughing at him, like images from the Peter Brueghel painting, hung in his living room.
     It was almost eight-thirty when he opened his eyes, feeling completely washed out by his strange dream. He tried to remember Freud’s interpretation of dreams but could not come up with any explanation.

Chapter Twenty
Family Album

  When Alex walked into the restaurant, Eduardo was already there drinking his coffee.
     “Good morning, Eduardo,” he greeted him like an old friend.
     “Good morning, Alex. You’re late, and I’m quite impatient as you can guess.” His eyes shone with excitement. “I have already ordered your favorite pancakes with strawberry jam.”
      Alex called the waiter and continued. “Sorry to be late. Bad dreams disturbed my sleep as always nowadays. I thought about my wife and our first trip to Washington.”
     “It was probably a pleasant reminiscence. Why do you call it a bad dream?”
     “It is hard to explain. Perhaps… some other time.” His face darkened, and Eduardo didn’t proceed with his inquires.
     “What about you? Did you have peaceful dreams last night?”
     “I couldn’t sleep well, thinking about Rebecca, Igor and the fate of those who were so mercilessly murdered at Blue Cottage. Who was that young woman with a child? Do you know anything about her? You left me puzzled yesterday. I need to know what came next.” Eduardo stared at Alex questioningly, anxious to hear the rest of the story.
     “Let me just wait until this coffee wakes me up completely, so I can concentrate on what I am about to tell you. It’s important.”
     Alex swallowed his last pancake, finished his coffee and kept silent for some time, trying to pull together his scattered thoughts. After some hesitation, he returned to the narrative he had been forced to interrupt the previous evening.
     “So, Eliza showed this woman their family album…”

*  *  *  *  *
     Eliza showed the woman their family album. She sat next to her, leafing through the pages of the thick book. The woman looked at the old photographs with tremendous curiosity, poring carefully over every picture until she stumbled across some photographs of the twin brothers just before they went to war. She lifted the album to her eyes, as if not believing what she saw and then, suddenly closing it, she darted a discreet glance at Eliza. The woman got up and paced the room for some time before she began talking.
     “I knew these young men, both of them. I heard they were captured by the Nazis and taken to a German concentration camp. We were in the same battalion when the German soldiers surrounded us. Many of our comrades were killed, but some of us managed to escape and hide in the woods. We had only a tiny hope for survival. Your sons risked their own lives by helping me to stay alive. I feel with all my loving heart—they are alive and will come back to you.”
     Eliza wept.
     “You don’t have to believe me. I don’t want to hurt you by giving you false hopes, but I saw your sons with my own eyes, and I owe them my life and the life of my son…”
     The woman hesitated for a moment, as if she wanted to add something else—something very important—but seeing the distress she had already caused, rose to leave. A sudden pain seized her whole body. She was obviously exhausted, physically and emotionally. Eliza took her to Rebecca’s room. She reminded her so much of her own daughter.
     Eliza and Samuel talked about the fate of their sons until late at night. Now they had hopes that Mark and Leon would come back home soon, but their hopes started to dwindle after hearing such horrific news from this unknown and mysterious woman.

*  *  *  *  *
     In the morning, a freezing rain had frosted the roads with sleet and ice, before giving way to mountains of snow, white and sparkling. A swirling wind tossed it into the air, gusting, playing with snowflakes and throwing them onto windows, plastered with winter frost. The snowfall didn’t stop during the night, covering the whole town with the white powder.
     The woman appeared in the kitchen with her child. She wore Rebecca’s red dress, and if not for her glossy, raven hair and brown eyes, she could easily have been taken for Rebecca. Though she looked a little rested, Eliza saw the dark circles under her eyes. Her child grasped the woman’s hand, as if afraid of losing his mother, and looked around him at the unfamiliar environment. While Eliza busied herself preparing breakfast, the woman helped her wash the dishes and clean the kitchen.
     An old Russian samovar was puffing in the middle of the table. Eliza ladled out porridge with hot milk onto every plate. They ate in silence, paying attention only to the boy, who hurriedly swallowed the delicious food, licking his spoon clean. He was a very cute, well-mannered and quiet little wonder, who had managed to survive such incredible conditions of cold and hunger.
     As they drank their tea, the woman broke the silence, “I need to talk to both of you. It’s very important, but I feel too weak now. I have to find the right words to describe to you the story of my survival. I want to tell you who I am and how much I have suffered, how I was betrayed by the old man with whom I stayed while waiting for Mark and Leon to return for me. I had to leave his house and to wander around in the woods for a long time until an old woman helped me to bring my child to life….” She closed her eyes and stopped talking.
     Watching the young woman, Eliza realized that their guest had probably merely slept last night. After breakfast, the woman went upstairs and appeared again only in the afternoon. The boy was still asleep.
     They had been waiting for her to have their afternoon tea. A pale candle burned in the middle of the table, throwing whimsical shadows on the white tablecloth. Just as they sat peacefully around the table, and the woman was about to tell her story, someone hammered on the door with a fist, loudly and alarmingly. Foreseeing the inevitable, they stopped talking and snuffed out the candle. The silence lasted for some minutes before the beating on the door started again but now louder and more impatiently. 
     Finally, Samuel had to get up and unlock the door. A gust of cold wind snapped it out of his hands and threw a heap of heavy snow into the house. Two men dressed in winter coats and dark fur hats, burst into the house from the blizzard. It was the secret police, the KGB. An ominous quiet fell heavily over the room. They all knew what this sudden appearance meant. The men stood at the threshold for a while, looking around the room with brash, inquisitive eyes.
     The brutal words of the men, addressed to the young woman, rushed into the house along with the cold air.
     “Who are you? How did you get here? Where are your documents?”
     And with undue familiarity, they approached her.
     “We have a warrant for your arrest.”
     They forced the woman to get up and grabbed her by the arm.    
     “Answer our questions.”
     “I don’t have any documents,” she admitted. Her face suddenly became white as snow. A clammy cold sweat covered her upper lip.
     “Very well then, hurry up. You’ll go with us.” The man stared at her, struggling to control his annoyance. 
     Whereupon, she got up without any hesitation or fear and glared at the two men who were waiting for her at the doorway.
     “I am a soldier, you are making a mistake.”
     Then, she turned to Eliza. “I’m sure that this is a serious mistake, and I’ll be back.”
     She kissed her crying child, whom Eliza had brought from the bedroom, then warmly embraced Eliza and Samuel and whispered into Eliza’s ear, “Please take care of Alexander, my son until I return. Take care of him, as if he were your own grandchild.”
     Tears streamed down her cheeks as she embraced her son for the last time. Eliza threw her warm Orenburg shawl around the woman’s shoulders, and the two men pushed her roughly to the door. Finally, the woman turned to Eliza:
     “If your sons ever come back, tell them that I am alive….My name is Rita” She hadn’t finished her sentence when one of the men struck her across the face.
     “Shut up, bitch!” You’ll talk to us at the office. And now move, move fast. Your time is up.”
     And with those words they disappeared into the night. No one ever saw or heard from her again. No one ever knew who she was or where she had come from.
     When the door slammed behind the woman, Eliza ran after her, but they had vanished into the white mist of the heavily falling snow….

*  *  *  *  *
     “What about the child?” Eduardo asked impatiently.
     During those hours, he had followed Alex’s story carefully, trying to put the different parts together, to find the way to his own fate. Alex paused to take a sip of coffee and asked the waiter to bring him another cup. Eduardo was desperate to hear the rest of the story and waited impatiently for Alex to empty his last cup.
     “Well, you can imagine what a storm her fate created in the hearts of Eliza and Samuel. Sometimes, the destiny of a stranger can touch you more deeply than your own fate. The life of this innocent woman was taken away before their very eyes. They could not forget that scene as long as they lived. Strangely enough, after the woman had been taken away, Eliza found in a pocket of the woman’s coat a photograph of her in a delicate oval frame. In this photo, she was wearing an elegant dress, and a cascade of luxuriant raven-black hair beautifully set off her modeled profile and her sad, wistful gaze. The frame was made of gold and skillfully decorated with small stones. Eliza stowed this picture away for it was the only reminder they had of that tragic night. The child, Alex, stayed with them. They loved him deeply and cared for him, as if he were their own grandson.”
     “Did Mark and Leon come back from that awful war?”
     “Be patient, Eduardo. They waited for their sons to come back. In their small town everybody was greeting their children who had returned from the war, everyone, except for them. During that time, Eliza and Samuel aged tremendously. It would have been an even more difficult time for them if they had not had the obligation to care for this boy, who brought solace to their grieving hearts.”
     Eduardo interrupted Alex, “Alex, please tell me first what happened afterwards. What do you know about that woman? Did they ever find her? So, maybe both of their sons were alive after all? Maybe the woman was telling the truth? I am beginning to suspect that both brothers were alive—but my story will come later. I want to hear the end of your narrative first. Please go on.”
     Alex sat for a while as if trying to remember something and then took an old watch out his pocket and looked at it. It was time to go to the train station to meet Eleanor.
     “Look, Eduardo, I really have to go now to meet my wife. I will have to postpone my story until later tonight. Would you like to join me? I can only imagine the startled expression on my wife’s face when she sees us together.”
     He got up at almost the same time as Eduardo who looked quite disappointed.
     “No, thank you. I would rather meet you at the exhibition. I need to take a walk and digest your story. I am beginning to sense a connection.  So, see you soon,” Eduardo said as he pulled on his jacket.

Chapter Twenty-On
Eleanor’s Discovery

     Eleanor woke up from a strange dream. She was on a train, heading toward an unknown destination. It looped along the naked, barren and dismal plateaus, blanketed with the first frost of the season. Could it be just the memory of her last conversation with Leon before he died? He often spoke to her about the war, the woman he loved and lost, about his hopes and dreams, and the courage he needed to fight for them. With his death, she lost her closest friend, her confidante. He was a great man. Alex was different from his father, perhaps softer, not a fighter at all, trading his soul for fame. Oh, how much she hated having to go to New York for the opening of yet another of Alex’s exhibitions! After Leon’s death, they began drifting farther apart day by day. Why did Alex never want to admit it to her, pretending to be blind? She was longing to walk away from their marriage, to scream, to be free from the chains of his love, but recently he had become so loving again. He was totally lost after his father’s sudden death. She still loved some of Alex’ qualities: his tenderness, his ability to listen and communicate with people. She appreciated his knowledge, his zest for life, his charm. However, she realized lately that she was wed not only to him but to the whole package of his selfish personality, his constant striving for fame, his numerous affairs with other women, along with her own loneliness and unhappiness.
     Still, she remembered how deeply she had fallen in love with Alex, but it was so long ago….

*  *  *  *  *
     Alex’s life was full of events. A famous artist, he possessed perspicacious wit, incredible strength and energy that imbued all the space around him.
     He generally spoke with enthusiasm. His speech was exciting, captivating, and he always remembered to invite the other person to participate in the conversation by asking many questions. He usually avoided long monologues, especially the ones in which he elaborated at great length. Notwithstanding, when he spoke he dominated the room. It was impossible not to listen to him, not to look at him, as well as not to fall under the spell of his charm. He knew more than anyone else and recalled almost everything he had read or heard. He possessed an unusual memory, besides being enamored of poetry and music, to which he devoted most of his time. To crown it all, he had the spiritual beauty of a powerful personality and at the same time unpredictable cruelty. He stood out from the crowd by versatility of knowledge and profound erudition, but under the circumstances he had enough humility to remain in the background. And for all of these qualities, he was loved by his friends and students.
     He was called the “Renaissance man” and was the favorite professor, and the most popular teacher in the academy. His lectures were always a one-man-show that drew more than 500 students to his every performance. His subject was the history of Flemish and Dutch art of the seventeenth century. In addition to his profound knowledge of art, Professor Alexander Gold was a handsome man with a deep baritone voice and seductive manners. Of course, all the girls were in love with him. The rumors had been circulating that he had never been married but had numerous love affairs. As for Eleanor, she too was fascinated by him and, like many others before her, came under his spell.

*  *  *  *  *
    There would come a time, she worried, when her behavior would unpredictably diverge from the wisdom with which she always conducted her life. She accepted it as inevitability and followed her desires without any realization of their fatal consequences. Obsessive love of a man had never happened to her the way she had imagined it. She denied her feelings, knowing in her heart that she had not yet met the man to whom she would give her heart without any regrets. She had learned one important thing in life—first to think, then to act in order to avoid any major mistakes. It was hard to follow this line because her emotions yielded to desire, to irrationality, even though her mind told her to act differently. For a long time, she buffeted with her intense longing for love. Eleanor lived in her own world of disillusion until she had encountered an eerie feeling that she mistakenly took for real love. How could she have known that her passion for art would generate love for a man who represented her ideal image of an artist?
     Flemish art and the life of Anthony Van Dyck became her obsession. Nevertheless, she couldn’t persuade herself that it was only Van Dyck who influenced her thoughts. Like other girls in her class, she wanted Dr. Gold to notice her, not realizing that from the very beginning he was drawn to his beautiful student with the attentive eyes and rapt attention.
    Eleanor was mesmerized not only by his knowledge but by how passionately he delivered his lectures. The passion of his teaching was transmuted for the students into a profound appreciation of art. She began to spend hours in various libraries, reading books on Anthony Van Dyck. Eleanor became familiar with the work of the most famous scholars on Flemish art, including the Belgian art historian Max Roozes, the German—Wilhelm Bode, the English expert Lionel Cust, and the Russian—Andrei Somov. She began to put her thoughts on paper.
     The day before her appointment with Alex Gold, it was almost midnight when she finished working. In spite of fatigue, she was only half asleep when she finally turned off her computer, repeating in her mind again and again what she would have to tell Professor Gold about her discovery. Slowly, she sank into dreamful slumber.

*  *  *  *  *
     In her fitful sleep, she was haunted by blurry images of Anthony Van Dyck himself, who had the face of Alexander Gold. She saw his sitters: King Charles I, Henrietta-Maria, his wife and numerous ladies-in-waiting with whom Van Dyck supposedly had love affairs. All those portraits stood against the wall in her bedroom. One by one, they were coming to life. Charles I proudly galloped on a horse around her bedroom. Henrietta-Maria and Margaret Lemon—Van Dyck’s temperamental mistress, Lady Venetia Kenelm, whom he painted on her death bed, and many others noisily discussed the latest events in England, while Van Dyck was deeply engaged in painting a new portrait. To Eleanor’s surprise, it was her portrait, and it was Professor Gold, not Van Dyck, who was executing it.
     She looked around, the noisy crowd suddenly disappear-ed, and she found herself in an oval-shaped studio with heavy red draperies. It was chaotically piled with works of art, books and sculptures. The evening dusk totally mantled the room, and only whimsical shadows of its previous guests still remained on the walls. She sat on the edge of a sofa, her hands crossed on her knees. She seemed to be crestfallen as she stared helplessly at the face of the painter. Her look pierced through the invisible wall of space, directly at him, straight into his eyes, shivering with the evening cold. The painter too stared at her for some time, smiling only with the corners of his lips, and then left the room. He soon came back with a blanket and wrapped it around her body. His touch brought to life a consuming desire that was cruel, vivid and frightening. She realized her fear was real when he put his arms around her. Under the shimmering moonlight, rippling through the white curtains, she watched his face seized by emotions. She felt his hot breath on her skin as they plunged into a powerful flux of passion. In her sleep, they were both overwhelmed, happy, exhausted…

*  *  *  *  *
     Eleanor woke up late with a splitting headache. Her night dream remained vivid and tangible. She still felt his touch on her skin, and her fear reflected in the penetrating green eyes of Alexander Gold. Eleanor took a cold shower and immediately went back to the computer. She wished that her father, whom she had lost only two months ago, could have been alive to share with him her troubled thoughts, but she was all alone in the world.
     Eleanor had neither close friends nor relatives. So, she consoled herself with books, mostly art books, poetry, novels and biographies. Her days went by with increasing melancholy and loneliness. She grew aloof from her fellow students, while plunging deeper inward and withdrawing even more into her shell.
     She took refuge in studies, and her obsession with the work of Van Dyck helped her to overcome her hours of confinement and solitude. Eleanor had never been daunted by the difficulties in the way—life had taught her how to be a fighter. And yet she was too passive in her personal life. All her schoolmates were dating—except for her. She hadn’t yet given a thought to her feelings for Dr. Gold, but one thing she knew for sure—she was scared of him and of his pro-found knowledge of art and literature, but most of all she was scared by her own physical attraction to him.

*  *  *  *  *
     This morning, however, Eleanor’s mood was lightened by the forthcoming meeting with Professor Alexander Gold.
     Although it was already deep fall, Indian summer was still holding on to the sky, unwilling to leave and to yield to the demand of the coming fall. The sky hovered low, like an open falling parachute. Eleanor nervously walked a couple of times around the building. She still had about ten minutes before her appointment. Finally, she pushed the elevator button to the third floor and found herself in a beautiful foyer, almost round in shape, with soft, dark red draperies on both sides of a big window, overlooking the city in a misty, humid cloud. The young and attractive secretary acknowledged Eleanor with a well-trained grimace and ushered her to the professor’s office.
     Professor Gold had a magnificent office with a view on the center city. Quaint, cherry-wood articles of furniture, Old Masters paintings, antiques and artifacts exuded sophistication and good taste. All of these contributed to the dignified atmosphere of the room. On a small table near the window he kept all his regalia, awards and souvenirs, brought from his numerous trips. Two small bookshelves were filled with recent art journals. The walls were also adorned with some unusual watercolors and pencil drawings by famous contemporary American artists. Eleanor was mesmerized by a masterly executed drawing, hanging above his desk. The painting depicted a totally naked woman with long dark hair, writhing in pain. She realized that the portrait was painted by Professor Gold himself. Who was this mysterious woman? Eleanor averted her gaze, deeply disturbed by the drawing.
     “Sit down, please. What can I do for you? Is it still hot outside? Who would ever think that the beginning of October could be so hot?” he said reluctantly.
     His face was genial, but his voice revealed certain hostility. Could it be her imagination because she was too nervous and too tense, or perhaps she expected a different kind of greeting? How she could have ever guessed that this was simply his tactic for attracting this na;ve girl by feigning his total indifference? He didn’t wait for her answer and moved right away to the main question.
     “Did you come to see me as an art historian, an expert on Van Dyck, or do you have some difficulties in following my course?”
     Only now, did she notice that he was watching her with some attention, and the expression of indifference on his face was replaced by a look of bewilderment. He leaned forward, as if he wanted to see her better. His keen, expressive eyes bored into her with some hidden curiosity.
     Eleanor was about to cry. She didn’t expect to be greeted with such coldness. After all, she made a discovery. She needed to tell him about two portraits attributed to Van Dyck but supposedly painted by his teacher, Rubens. They were the portraits of Isabella Brant, the first wife of Rubens, who died young of tuberculosis, leaving him with three children, and the portrait of Susanna Faurment, a sister of Rubens’ second wife, Helena, whom he married when she was only fifteen and he was fifty-three. According to some sources, Rubens had a secret love affair with Susanna Faurment.
     “I followed your lectures very carefully, professor, and I have to agree with you—it is amazing that every painting has its own mysterious destiny and its own history as well as the artist himself, and of course his sitters,” she began talking, trying to capture his attention.
     “It’s very exciting to search for the history of paintings and the fate of their artists, and finally…to discover step by step how it is all connected,” she continued, throwing at him a stealthy glance.
     He looked inquisitively into her face and agreed readily with her statement, watching how she slowly put all her paperwork in front of him and spread it all over his desk. After a minute of total concentration, she began to present arguments about her discovery, weighing her words very carefully while her heart throbbed and her cheeks flushed.
     He was impressed but tried to hide his intense interest, looking over the copies of the documents. A copy of a letter by someone named James A. Schmidt caught his attention. The letter was in Russian and published in the old Russian magazine called Ñòàðûå Ãîäû (Old Times).
     “Do you read Russian?” The professor seemed surprised.
     “Yes, just a little bit. My father spoke some Russian, but I heard that you are fluent in Russian. I thought you could probably help me to fully understand the content of this letter.”
     “Yes, in fact I can. The author claimed that the Rubens’ signature was on the reverse sides of the original frames on both paintings you have just mentioned. Why didn’t you ask your father to help you?”
     “He was very ill and died two months ago.”
     “I am sorry to hear it, Eleanor.”
     It was the first time that he had called her by name. His eyes warmed and from cold blue turned into soft green. It struck her before that his eyes were blue, tending to grey or green.
     “Had you been close to your father?”
     “Yes, he was my best friend. I would rather not talk about it.”
     He gave a nod of understanding and switched the subject back to Van Dyck’s portraits.
     “So, I summarize your statement. According to Wilhelm Bode, both those paintings were painted by Rubens. They were bought from the collection of Count Choiseul of France by Catherine the Great with the attribution to Rubens. Is that so?”
     “Yes, but after the collection was bought by Andrew Mellon from the Soviet authorities and removed from the Hermitage Museum, and finally placed in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, both portraits were attributed to Van Dyck.”
     Reviewing her paperwork, Professor Gold concluded suddenly, “Well, you did a great piece of research. You should go to Washington to meet the National Gallery curator of Dutch and Flemish art and see what he says about your discovery.” His voice was now much friendlier, though she didn’t see any trace of excitement in his eyes. He thought for a minute and then added.
     “Actually, I may join you. I would love to see his reaction when he learns about your research.”
     Eleanor was numbed—he didn’t even glance at her, as if it had been already decided between them that they were going to Washington. The professor called his secretary on the phone,
     “Suzie, dear, can you find out when is the next time I am free from lecturing. Next Wednesday? Fine, thank you. Please make an appointment for me on that day with the curator of Flemish Art at the National Gallery of Art in Washington and one night in my favorite hotel. Great! Thank you, my friend.”
     He turned to Eleanor and looked her over with some pleasure. Their eyes locked. “So, next Wednesday, Eleanor, I’ll meet you at the train station around ten in the morning. Prepare all your paperwork. Agreed?”
     She blushed and nodded disarmingly, casting a shy look at him. How could she object if the matter had already been settled regardless of whether she had agreed or not? Her thoughts were in disarray. Was it true that she was going with Professor Gold himself to the National Gallery of Art to present her discovery to the famous gallery curator?
     “By the way,” he interrupted her train of thought, “we’ll be returning the next day. I’ll make some plans for us in the evening. Don’t worry about the hotel. I’ll take care of it.”
     Seeing Eleanor’s bewilderment, he smiled and approached her. Bending over the chair next to her face, he spoke softly, “You are an exceptional girl, Eleanor, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy our trip.”
     He reached for her hand and gently squeezed it. She sensed the warmth and strong energy emanating from his body. In a hurry, Eleanor collected all her paperwork and put it in a folder.
     “Thank you, professor, for listening to me and taking me seriously.”
     “Alex, you can call me Alex. And you are very welcome indeed, Eleanor. So, don’t forget, Wednesday, at ten.”
     He went back to his desk, a clear demonstration that the audience was over.
     Walking back from his office, she felt giddy and con-fused. His pretty secretary stared at her with an oblique smile at the corners of her painted lips.
     “Goodbye, dear, I’ll make all the arrangements for Wednesday…. Have a nice trip.”
     Eleanor didn’t reply and hastily opened the door to the staircase instead of taking the elevator. Later, it crossed her mind that she hadn’t asked him to get a separate room for her, but it was already too late to return to his office with such a foolish question. She brushed off this sudden unsettling thought, hoping this ticklish matter would eventually settle itself.
     She turned once again in her mind everything she had heard before about the professor from her close friend, Stella.
     Stella, who had known about the forthcoming meeting, had forewarned Eleanor: “Remember, Eleanor, people say that if someone just once gets into his aura, they remain there as his prisoner or his servant for the rest of their lives. He does not like to talk much about himself, but he is always eager to listen, leaning toward the speaker and fixing his sharp, penetrating eyes on the person. The color of his eyes usually changes according to his moods, events or circumstances. If a person he speaks with interests him, his eyes change into a soft, warm-green color, if indifferent—they turn icy blue. When he is angry, they are cold and transparently grey.”
     “How do you know such details?” Eleanor was flabbergasted.
     Stella blushed and turned away from Eleanor’s intense gaze.
     “Have you been involved with him?”
     “Eleanor, everybody—but you—knows he is a womanizer. I was in love with him once. We had a brief love affair some time ago. It’s all over now. Why are you asking? Are you his next victim?” She laughed.    
     “Please, stop, Stella. I am not his victim and will never be. Maybe I have chosen him as my victim. We will see.”
     “Don’t try to fool me, Eleanor. You are also obsessed with our charming Professor Gold. Aren’t you?”

                *  *  *  *  *
    “What is the next stop? Do you know?”
     Eleanor heard a whiny voice, which barely reached her consciousness as she tried to shake off nagging memories. She cast a sidelong glance at a middle-aged man, sitting across from her on the opposite bench of the moving train. She looked him over carefully, thinking that by his polished looks, big belly and well-nourished face he could be a politician. Eleanor didn’t feel like getting involved in any conversation.
     “I am not sure. I am afraid I dozed off for some time.”
     “I was watching you. What was your dream about?” The man’s eyes darted lustfully about Eleanor’s face, appraising her beauty.
     Eleanor turned to the window, ignoring his question and watching the running platform of the train station. At the same time, the conductor announced that they were arriving in New York. There was the usual movement among the passengers, collecting their luggage and forming a long line to the exit. Eleanor was not in a hurry. She slowly buttoned her coat and put on lipstick.
     The man continued staring at her with the same lustful look. “Is anybody meeting you at the station? I could offer you a dinner in a nice restaurant.” His well-groomed face expressed self-satisfaction.
     Eleanor shook her head, hardly restraining her fret. “I am honored by your offer, sir, but unfortunately I have a previous engagement.”
     She saw a look of disappointment cross his round, double-chinned face. And then, after some moments, she added, glaring at him in defiance, “To be honest, I would not accept your offer anyway. You are too polished, too well-organized. I don’t like people like that, but thank you anyway….”
     She picked up her light suitcase and moved closer to the exit. Her bad mood deepened as she started thinking about her husband’s new exhibition, the adoring crowd, the flattering remarks and the pretentious smiles that awaited her at the museum. The two-hour trip had given her a splitting headache, and now all she wanted was a hot shower and a nap.

*  *  *  *  *
     A short while later Alex walked to the train station alone. A small crowd was waiting on the platform for the incoming train. As soon as the train pulled into the station, finally losing its speed, Alex saw his wife. She got off the train, resplendent like a movie star with her long, curly, chestnut hair. Elegantly dressed in a long white coat and white boots with high heels, without any make-up except for a slight touch of pink lipstick, she had never looked more glorious. Smiling happily, Alex embraced her and kissed her on both cheeks, greeting her effusively.
     “You look gorgeous, Eleanor. I missed you, darling, and I have so much to tell you.”
     “Not now, Alex, please. I am too tired,” she replied in a flat, indifferent voice, getting into a cab.
      “You didn’t tell me where you are going.” The cab driver turned his head, staring at Eleanor.
     “Please, take me to the Hotel Meridian,” Eleanor answered plainly, and looking at Alex, she tried to justify her intentions, “I need to freshen up a bit, but you continue your trip. I’ll meet you at the gallery shortly perhaps. Otherwise, call me after the show. I’ll join you for dinner.”
     Eleanor smiled, but Alex sensed tension in her voice. He was visibly upset that Eleanor hadn’t expressed any interest in attending the opening of his new exhibition.

Chapter Twenty-Two
Confrontation

   Eleanor climbed under the covers and pulled the blanket over her head. She managed to snatch an hour’s nap, but instead of feeling refreshed afterwards, she felt tense and nervous. She rose and, putting on her warm robe, looked out the window. High above thunderheads were gathering and, forming a fast-streaming river, undulating in the sky. This scene evoked her memories of another day in her life, the day of the confrontation with Alex, the day that remained in her thoughts these past years. “A dull rainy day began with splashes of rain and wind…”

*  *  *  *  *
     A dull rainy day began with melodic splashes of rain and wind. Eleanor remained by the window, watching the first drops of rain reach the pavement. She stood there for quite a long time until she noticed the rain had begun to let up, and the wind was emitting a loud moan, waltzing with the flickering leaves. The wind vacillated for some time and then slowly deflated, like a balloon, puffing out cold air along the empty street.
     She was waiting for Alex to pick her up, but he was late as usual. He had a habit of making people wait for him. In a way, she was glad he was late—he had given her more time to think about him, their relationship and their future together. Finally, her worries of the last two days were rep-laced by clear thinking.
     Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock on the door, announcing Alex’s arrival. Alex, who never used the doorbell, but instead, banged on the door impatiently and annoyingly. When she opened the door, he strode confidently into the room, bringing with him the effervescence of his loud and cheerful personality that filled the room. A crisp burst of air entered the room, modulating the warm temperature.
     “You brought with you the smell of wind and the taste of leaves,” Eleanor whispered, taking from his hands a huge bouquet of yellow and red poplar leaves and inhaling their freshness.
     “They are the color of your hair,” he said, approaching her and touching her wavy tresses.
     She moved swiftly from him, laughing. “Don’t rumple my hair please.”
     But he didn’t listen to her—he thought she had probably forgotten that today was their anniversary—exactly one year since their first trip to Washington. Just two weeks ago, he had proposed, and she had almost accepted, but today, to his surprise, the diamond engagement ring was not on her finger.
     “Oh, I almost forgot,” he smiled mischievously and put a small box on the table. “Open it. It’s my present for you. I want to give you something memorable, Eleanor. I missed you that whole bloody week when you suddenly disappeared from my life. But please, darling, remember that there’s not another woman in the world that could make me happy—there’s only you.”
     He opened the small box, containing a hand-painted brooch. On a small, lacquered oval, Alex had painted Eleanor’s face. It was a masterpiece, made in the unique style of old Russian miniature portraits.
     Eleanor put her arms around him. “Oh, Alex, you could not have given me a lovelier gift. You know how much I value your work, and how grateful I am for your understanding. I truly appreciate it. But I didn’t forget our anniversary, darling. I have a present for you too.” 
     She went to her bedroom and brought back a package, wrapped in red paper. “What is it? I thought you had forgotten…”
     “Open it.”
     She helped him unwrap her present. It was a painting Eleanor had done for him. Alex noted that it was very well executed, but extremely odd. The painting depicted a late autumn day enveloped in a dense fog with a long road in an old park. Three silhouettes—two men and a woman, holding hands – were walking down the road. Their images were almost invisible. There was something very peaceful and yet disturbing in their lonely figures among tall naked trees and heavy clouds brooding low above them, as if ready to fall to earth. Looking at this painting, Alex could not suppress a feeling of unease, as if he could sense in it a premonition of a gathering thunderstorm.
     He put his arms around her. “What inspired you to paint this beautiful picture, Eleanor?”
     “I don’t know, Alex, I can’t explain it. It is like a dream that I wanted to make real. Please, don’t ask me to explain. And please, darling, don’t press me any further about our marriage. I will let you know when I am ready.”
     He noticed that she spoke with certain sadness in her voice. He thought that any other woman would jump at the opportunity to become the wife of such a famous artist, but not Eleanor. She still remained a woman of mystery and puzzled him by her silent resistance, which made her even more desirable to him.
     They walked outside into a deserted street, chilly and mute. The first dim streetlights were coming on and throwing yellow flashes into the air, permeated with heavy drops of rain. But then abruptly, just as it had started, the rain ebbed. Feeble moonlight broke through the layers of clouds.
     Eleanor gazed wistfully at Alex, “I like the melancholy of rainy days. Somehow, it reminds me of my childhood.” He didn’t reply, enjoying the sound of her deep voice.
     She hesitated for a moment and then resumed, “Look, Alex, we have known each other for such a long time, and yet you have never told me anything about yourself, your childhood.”
     “Well, my childhood… Where shall I start? My memories are so scattered, so vague, just small fragments here and there. I guess…I have always tried to block them. I remember my grandmother very well. I mistakenly thought she was my mother. We lived in a small town in Belorussia. Soon after my father returned from the war, we moved to Leningrad….”
     “Is that all?” Eleanor was visibly disappointed, “Do you have any memories of your life in Leningrad?”
     He floundered for a moment, “No, not much, really. I remember well many rainy days in Leningrad, fused with a deep melancholy, like today, here in Philadelphia. I recall a small room in a communal flat on the fourth floor of an old four-story building, located on Griboedov’s Canal, named after the Russian poet, Alexander Griboedov. It was a narrow street, paved with uneven bricks. Our window over-looked a large, empty and desolate wasteland with dying grass, scattered dirty bottles and piles of trash. I was ten or eleven years old and afraid to look out the window on that unknown and mysterious field. Once, I heard from the neighbor that a young sailor had been murdered there, and his corpse had lain unattended for a long time. I often thought about the young sailor and his fate. It left a deep impression on my young soul.”
     “Can you describe to me a communal flat, Alex?”
     “I don’t even know how to explain it to you, Eleanor. There was a long corridor with many doors, seventeen or so in our flat. For all of us, there was only one kitchen and one toilet, no bathroom. That’s how we lived in those days.” 
     “Why have you never told me about it?”
     “Because it’s too sad…. Let us not talk about sad things. Perhaps, my father is more inclined to talk about his past because he still lives there— his presence in the present time is only an illusion. He exists just for me in this world which is foreign for him. He knows how much I need and love him, and how desperately lonely I’ll be without him. What are you thinking about, Eleanor?”
     She touched his hand. “I am thinking about you, Alex. You know that your life matters a great deal to me.”
     “Oh, God, I have been waiting to hear these words from you for a long time.”
     “I’m sorry you have never told me about your past, your grandmother and what happened to your real mother. Perhaps it could help me to better understand you.”
     “I don’t like to talk about my past. Too many bad memories, and, as you can guess, I am a happy man now.”
      “I understand. I am sorry, darling. It’s so stupid of me. I’m really sorry.”
     He put his arms around her, and Eleanor thought maybe she hadn’t tried hard enough to understand him better, to become part of his life. Perhaps, climbing the stairs of success, pursuing his career, he just wanted to forget what he had been yesterday. It was impossible to detect any emotion from looking at him, as if he wanted to keep a distance between his remote, unhappy past and his successful present. They walked in silence for the rest of the way.
     The colorful autumn leaves were prattling, rustling and dying under their footsteps. The streets were shimmering with wistful autumn hues. The city exhaled the smell of leaves, fused with humidity. The dark sky hovered low over its tall edifices. In the degraded autumn colors, the city looked washed out and almost surreal…

*  *  *  *  *
    They entered a small, cozy restaurant on the twelfth floor and took a table near the window. The city was scarcely visible through misty sheets of rain. Eleanor glanced at Alex and was struck by the sad expression on his face. But she knew there was one more step to be taken tonight. It had been on her mind for a long time now—to tell him everything that had been bothering her lately. Only he was the first one to start the conversation, sensing some trouble in the air.
     “Eleanor, tell me what’s on your mind? I want to keep you from making a mistake. I want to marry you. You know that… I thought it had already been tacitly decided between the two of us.”
     As he spoke, his eyes shone feverishly, and he reminded her of a small, scared rabbit. He poured some sparkling water into her glass, and then he again focused his attention on the engagement ring, still missing from her finger.
     “Where is the ring, Eleanor?”
     “O, stop worrying, Alex. I took it off this morning to wash dishes and probably forgot to put it back.”
     He sipped some water from the glass.
     “It’s all decided between us, isn’t it? You belong to me now, Eleanor, and there shouldn’t be any secrets between us. I hope —”
     He hadn’t finished his sentence when she interrupted him dismissively, “I don’t belong to anybody, Alex. Remember? Don’t try to run my life. We have talked about this before. I am not saying I have lost my feeling for you, but, yes, I have fallen in love with someone else. I didn’t plan it to happen. I am telling you the truth. Anyhow, you have nothing to be afraid of. It is probably just an illusion, a figment of my sick imagination.”
     “I hate it when you talk like this. I don’t understand you. Just tell me the truth.”
     “Are you sure you want to hear what I’m about to say?”
     “Let’s get into this damn thing and get it over with.”
     “Alright then, what would you like to know? There’s not much to say. It was a brief encounter, nothing more. Are you jealous?”
     “Yes, I am. I’m not a prude, but I can’t imagine you in the arms of another man. I hope you understand. Let’s make it clear once and for all. Yes, I’m jealous, but I can forgive you if there is no emotion involved, only your imagination.”
     “Alex, I am sorry. Let’s forget about it, really. I am deeply sorry.”
     “You have hurt me, Eleanor, but I love you. I’ve no choice but to forgive you. Just tell me who is he. Do I know him?”
     She smiled “It’s you, Alex, your own copy. Look in the mirror.”
     “Stop joking, Eleanor. With you, I never know what is real and what your artistic imagination is.”
     She laughed. “Please, stop asking me about a phantom. There is no point in discussing this any further. I repeat—you have nothing to worry about. Actually, you interrupted me when I was talking about my imagination. There is one important subject for me that you so skillfully avoided discussing. Do you know that with you I lost the chastity of my imagination? Do you know that I can’t paint anymore—you killed my desire to become an artist?”
     “You changed the subject but go on anyway,” he demanded.
     Alex filled up two crystal glasses with wine. “You like this wine, it’s your favorite.”
     He handed her the glass, but she didn’t touch it. He noticed a kind of hostility in her eyes, as if small powerful sparks of fire had burst out of her soul.
     “Look, Eleanor, you move in such a dangerous direction. I’m not defending my actions. I’m well aware of my faults. You should try to understand—it was always my ambition to achieve fame and success, just as I dreamed about your future,” he snapped, eluding her intense look. Then he added, “I love my life fervently, and from the time I succeeded in becoming an artist, I have lived with the strong goal of reaching the top. I have fallen into the abyss many times, but I have always recovered.”
     She edged in, “And consumed with artistic greed, you’ve descended deeper and deeper into the desire to reach for the stars. In your heart, you have failed yourself, but you wanted to be reborn in the work of your students. Is that so, Alex? Is that what you wanted to say?”
     “Actually, yes, you are my star, my future. I’m not going to give you up.”
     She had never heard him speak this way before that very moment. He bent over, trying to overcome his bad temper, and took a gulp from the glass of red wine. Red drops hung from his beard and then dropped back into the glass. She became paralyzed with fear.
      He noticed the fear on her face and stopped talking. A long pause, interrupted only by Beethoven’s 9th Symphony in the background, gave him time to ponder her words.
      “Yes, I decided to guide you through the unintelligible paths to the road of fame and success.”
     He coughed and gulped down a whole glass of wine at once.
      Eleanor took advantage of the moment and continued his thought, adding some sarcasm to her words, “Oh, no. You can argue about it endlessly, but you did not care about my achievements—you only strived for your own fame. Am I right, Alex? Tell me if I am right?” And without waiting for his reply, she went on, “You have known for a long time now that your real talent vanished the moment you became greedy for fame and recognition. At the beginning of your career, your distorted vision of the world seemed amazing. However, you ran out of fresh ideas of your own, and it was only by gathering around you some extraordinary people, you managed to keep some of your past success. Portraits of the rich and famous....You remind me of your idol, Anthony Van Dyck…”
     “I’m afraid, Eleanor, you don’t really understand my motives for painting portraits. Don’t you think our conversation is becoming very intriguing, or should I say… hurtful?”
      “I am really sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, Alex, but you put chains on my mind and my soul. You distorted my sense of clarity, my ability to think independently. You slowly pushed me into the abyss, the darkness of your own ego.”
     “Hell, no…Eleanor, please stop!”
     He raised his hand as if trying to protect himself from her hurtful words. Yet she could not stop. The words kept pouring out of her heart, demanding to liberate her from her own pain. She wanted to inflict the same pain on him, instead of showing him the gratitude that he was longing for. She narrowed her eyes and stared at him.
      “Shall I continue?” She ignored his faint gesture of pro-test as she prepared to build a podium for his final execution. Only then, did she notice Alex’s face twisted with pain, his hands pressed together.
     He strived to quench the flow of her painful words, but instead, whispered in a broken voice, “You won, Eleanor. Please, don’t go on. It hurts too much. You managed to discover the truth behind my fa;ade of wellbeing which I tried to hide even from you. But….”
     He was speaking now to himself, almost forgetting her presence, “But you still don’t know me. Anyhow, I have my doubts now that you ever loved me, Eleanor.” He finally smiled rather childishly and disarmingly.
     “Yes, I did love you, and I do now.” She stared at him for some time, searching for the right words. “I still love you, Alex. Otherwise, I would not be with you today.”
     “I trust your words, Eleanor, but you know I want more.”
     She put her hand on his and said nothing for some time.
     Then he spoke again, “You always complicate everything. My life without you would be meaningless. I can try to change for you.”
     She liked the way he said it. He suddenly looked like a defenseless child.
     “I love you the way you are. I don’t want you to be different, Alex. I’ll be your wife.”
     “This is the happiest day in my life, Eleanor. In fact, you have made two men happy today at the same time—my father and me.” Alex’ eyes shone with excitement.
     The cold, grey color of his eyes changed into warm green. He closed his arms around her as they stood to leave, but she freed herself from his embrace.
     “It’s getting late.”
     “I’ll walk you home. I need to clear my mind anyway after such a turbulent evening. I want to see the ring on your finger again, Eleanor.”
     “You will.”
     She smiled at him, thinking that somehow she had managed to stir up Alex’s thoughts, put them in disarray. She did want to cause some disturbance in his life, to make him suffer and return to his real self, when he was young and so unbelievably talented, away from his success in painting soulless portraits. Still, she knew that it was not in her power to return him to his past. Now, she began to feel guilty, thinking about his childhood and his lonely life with his father. She really wanted to make him happy and to ease the life of his father, whom she so deeply respected. She tried to suppress a sense of sadness, realizing again that her fate and Alex’s had just been sealed forever.

Chapter Twenty-Three
The Exhibition

     After taking Eleanor to the hotel, Alex went straight to the museum. He was deeply hurt by Eleanor’s indifference to his work. At the beginning of their marriage, she used to help him finish his portraits with her magical touches, but soon she began losing interest in helping him to create his soulless portraits. After her graduation, she found a job in one of the galleries as a restorer and threw herself passionately into her new duties. She recently lost all curiosity for Alex’s work. Alex thought that if his father had been alive, he would have appreciated his success as a portrait painter. He brushed off these disturbing thoughts and tried to concentrate on the events of the day.
     When finally Alex entered the exhibit hall, there was only a half hour left before its opening. Eduardo was already there, greeting him with his disarming smile.
     “I have been waiting for you for quite some time, Alex. Please hurry up. We still have about thirty minutes left. I want you to be my guide.”
     Eduardo suddenly stopped, his eyes wide in astonishment as he gazed at a sizable poster with the portrait of a strikingly beautiful woman, painted with strong, slanted brush-strokes. Alex’s name, printed in red, stood out above the portrait.
     “Whose portrait is this, Alex?”
     Eduardo seemed to be somewhat perturbed.
     “It’s a portrait of my wife. Do you like it?”
     “Yes, in fact I think it’s a masterpiece.”
     “It will be the jewel of the exhibition. You will see. My only concern is that no matter how hard I tried to depict Eleanor the way I saw her, the portrait still looked different from the image I was trying to create. Let’s not waste our time. I have many more masterpieces to show you.” Alex glanced at Eduardo, inviting him to continue their tour.
     “I want you to see my early work… Just follow me.”
     Eduardo noticed that Alex said the last words with pride, which increased his curiosity about Alex’s art.
     When they stopped in front of a small watercolor in a simple wooden frame, Eduardo was mesmerized by its beauty. It depicted a forest, pinked by the sun, rising above the horizon. The light was almost surreal, as if coming from another world. Its rays slightly touched the earth and the tops of the trees. It conveyed such a subtle feeling, subdued emotion, a magical aura that immediately drew Eduardo into a world of awakening happiness. All his watercolors represented a brilliant display of different colors and impressive new techniques. A wondrous combination of subdued red, bright yellow, deep green and blue impressed Eduardo the most. It was music of colors, recreated from Scriabin’s symphony. Altogether, Alex’ paintings gave the impression of a mystery behind the melodies of light and color, behind the world of unreality and mystery. Eduardo saw in Alex’s watercolors the craftsmanship, combined with an energy and spirit of hope, in addition to a haunting mystical quality.
     There were about twenty such watercolors, bursting with the sheer beauty of color and music. Eduardo couldn’t take his eyes from Alex’s early work. The mastery he achieved in his paintings convinced Eduardo beyond any doubt—Alex was a real genius, almost a magician, who at this point had lost his brush, his sense of color and had finally diverted his energy into art that was unworthy of his talent. He belonged to a different world, the one that he had left for fame and success.
     Eduardo’s first impression of these masterpieces was that they were extremely powerful. However, he needed time to himself to ruminate over the paintings he had just seen and to see more of Alex’s work. The rest of the day, Eduardo went through the hall alone, leaving Alex to enjoy his predictable success.
     The remaining paintings were mostly portraits, well executed, but dull. Only one portrait attracted his attention, another portrait of Alex’s wife, painted long time ago. Eduardo fixed his eyes on her face. The oblong, pensive eyes with golden glitters held a deep secret. The subdued light with some sudden dark passages intensified the expression of sadness on her spiritual face. Her hands were on the arm-rests of the chair, and Eduardo had the impression that she was about to get up and leave the room, to fade slowly from the picture into her own secret world of dreams. Somehow, this portrait aroused a tangled recollection of another portrait he had tried to paint almost twenty years ago….This reminiscence brought back some painful moments from his past… the blizzard in New York….
     Eduardo’s first impulse was to leave immediately, to go back to Italy, but he could not do it. He wanted to hear the story of Alex’s parents to the end. He was now more than ever sure that they were related.
     Finally, when the crowd thinned, Alex found Eduardo standing before the portrait of Eleanor and pulled him out of the exhibition hall to the street.
     “Aren’t you going for the reception?” Eduardo wondered.
     “No, I don’t think so. These last days have been too emotional.”
     “Your organizers will be disappointed.”
     “I know, but right now all my energy is directed to solving our puzzle. You probably feel the same way. Don’t you?”
     Alex and Eduardo stepped outside the museum into the dark that had suddenly fallen over the city. Only the hardly detectable music of the rain, dropping into puddles, disturbed the tranquility of the evening. The autumn air was windless and solemn. The merely visible moonlight tried to rend the clouds. It emitted an eerie glow through their heavy density. Skyscrapers began slowly melting away in the impending twilight, but their merely visible silhouettes still loomed on the dark canvas of the sky. The rain soon stopped. However, it was still humid and rather warm.
     “Was your father also an artist?” Alex asked Eduardo, breaking their silence first.
     “Actually, yes, but we will talk about my father later. Instead, let’s talk about your work. It’s your day, Alex. I do want to congratulate you. Your exhibition was a thumping success! You are really a good artist, the way you execute all those portraits—such a marvelous technique. However, I am more impressed by your early work, your love of flamboyant and yet subdued colors. Nevertheless, I noticed a sort of coldness in your late portraits, not the coldness of your sitters, but your indifference to the people whose portraits you paint. Why?”
     “May I ask you a simple question, Eduardo? Do you consider yourself a happy man?”
     And without waiting for an answer, Alex went on, as if someone had pushed a painful button that he was always afraid to touch. “I always thought that I was a ‘relatively’ happy man. Why relatively you may ask? Well, to tell you the truth….I am not. In other words, sometimes I just pretend to be happy because I have everything that one’s heart could desire—a wife I love, my work, money, success. In spite of all my efforts to live in peace with myself, one thing is missing—I am not in peace with my soul. You see, I am a very emotional person. My work used to be based on my emotions. When painting, I was exhausting my soul, emptying it, and yet I did not feel happy.”
     “Oh, how well I understand your feelings. Nevertheless, you found a way to escape your overwhelming emotions by creating works of art that didn’t need your spiritual input. All it needed were just your skills and your techniques. However, if you take away from me all my desires, all my hopes, all my emotions, I would become a dead man,” Eduardo said quietly.
     “Well, I appreciate your understanding. Honestly, you can’t imagine how often I have unexplained twinges of conscience, but I can’t change anything now. I am the one who sold his soul to the devil. Too late…too late now…”
     “It is never too late, Alex, to start all over again. I think that I am just beginning to live. Our strange encounter has changed our lives forever, and I am grateful to you for that.”
     They entered a small, cozy restaurant, where Alex had made a reservation. They sat in its remote corner. Then Eduardo continued, “You know, Alex, I have found in you a kindred spirit, more than a friend, a brother.”
     Alex raised his eyebrows, “I appreciate your sincerity, Eduardo. I do feel the same way. I am glad we met.”
     Meanwhile, Eduardo was becoming impatient, eager to learn the fate of the child and the both brothers. It was now obvious to him that Alex could be his cousin, but he was completely unprepared for what he heard next. “Alex, please go on with your story. I am eager to learn what happened.”
     Alex was finishing his soup. Suddenly, he felt hungry after such a long day at the show. Eduardo patiently waited until Alex pushed away the empty bowl and, delving into the past, began his narration. “Well, this is the most difficult part of the story. This story I also heard from my father… Numb with cold, disoriented and frustrated, wearing wet overcoats, the young soldiers stumbled along the narrow, winding path…”