"Je cher da travail."
"No, Dimitri. Je cherche du travail. Cherche du travail. Repeat."
Dimitri cursed and threw his hands up in surrender, shoving away from the kitchen table abruptly. The sheet of French vocabulary and phrases Anya had written for him fluttered to the ground behind him. They had been at it all morning, practicing Dimitri's pitch for his job search that was supposed to begin today. At this rate, it would probably be months before he'd find a job. Who would want to hire a barely literate Russian immigrant with no legitimate work history? He couldn't exactly list "smuggled a lost Russian princess across the border" as one of his qualifications.
Anya sighed and stood up to retrieve the vocabulary list, clucking at him like a schoolmarm. "Sit down, Dimitri."
"It's useless, Anya. I can't do it. My mouth doesn't move that way."
"You just need to practice," she said patiently. "If I learned, you can learn."
He snorted, folding his arms across his chest. "Yes, but you were practicing for tea parties; I have to convince someone to give me a job. And knowing twenty words in French does not exactly inspire confidence in employers."
She stepped in front of him and took his untied tie in her hands. "But it shows them you're willing to learn. And you will." She knotted the tie expertly, pulling it tight and straightening it around his neck. Dimitri would have struggled with it for a least a couple minutes more without her help.
"Where did you learn to do that?"
She smiled, flattening the creases in his shirt with her fingers. "I had to help Alexei with his ties. We called him Fumble Fingers."
"Could Alexei speak French?"
"He could. And you will too. Now, how will you introduce yourself to your future boss?"
Dimitri took a deep breath, wracking his brain. "Bonjour, je m'appelle Dimitri Sudayev."
She nodded, returning to her seat at the table. "Good. And what are you looking for?"
"Uh…" He shut his eyes, putting his hands on his hips and rocking on the balls of his feet. The words came awkward and stilted, but they came. "Je cherche du travail."
Her grin stretched lazily across her face as she prompted him to continue. "Where are you from?"
"Je viens de St. Petersburg."
"Russian, eh?" She leaned forward over the table, resting her head on steepled fingers. "And why on earth should I hire you?"
"Because I need a damn job."
She snorted a laugh. "En français s'il vous plaît."
"Because, er, parce que je suis responsable, fiable, et...et..." He looked to Anya for help, but she shook her head, arching an eyebrow.
"And what?"
He grabbed the foreign word by the throat and looked Anya in the eye triumphantly. "Et travailleuse."
She clapped and bounded from her chair, looping her arms around his neck to pull him down for a sloppy kiss. He grinned against her mouth, spinning them around on the spot.
"I knew you could do it! Keep practicing and you'll be chattering away in no time, mon cher."
"Thank you, Anya. For being so patient."
He planted another kiss on her cheek before she ducked away, throwing open the kitchen's small pantry doors. "You'll be gone all day, I'm guessing. You can buy something hot from the market if you want, but here's an apple and some bread…" she threw the items over her shoulder for Dimitri to catch. "Cheese?"
He shook his head. "It's too warm; it'll stink. What are you doing today, while I'm gone?"
She shrugged, shining an apple before packing it in her own bag. "Same as you. Je cherche du travail."
He tensed. "Right."
She paused, turning to face him. "Is that a problem?"
It shouldn't have bothered him, really. She fended for herself for a decade, working honest, legitimate jobs to keep food in her belly— Dimitri couldn't even say that much. And since they were going to put Anya's inheritance into savings, she would have to find work too. If Anya had stayed with her grandmother, she would have never needed to work another day in her life, living in the lap of luxury. She was a princess, the last of the Romanovs, and yet she could end up sweeping the streets again, or toiling away in a dangerous factory. He would never be able to give her the palaces and fine clothes she had in another life, but he wished he could at least give her back her dignity.
"Just...stay away from the mills," he said finally, putting a hand on her shoulder as he passed behind her, reaching for the kettle to pour himself another mug of half-burnt coffee. "People have lost fingers in those machines. And worse."
"I'll take whatever is available," she said firmly, leaning back against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed. "Since I know you'll do the same."
"Well, yeah. I'll shovel shit if I have to. But manual labor wouldn't be appropriate for a—"
Her eyes narrowed, regarding him coolly. "What? Appropriate for a what?"
He knew he should let it go, that he was the unreasonable one here, but stubbornness tugged at his tongue. He put the mug down and raised his hands in exasperation. "A woman? Princess? My wife? Pick one."
"I am more than capable—" she scowled, but he interrupted, grabbing her hands.
"I know you are. And you're more prepared than I am, truth be told. But you shouldn't have to do this," he said, his voice hitching up in volume. "I didn't ask you to give up your whole life to be with me, just so you can clean some rich bastard's floors!"
Anya tugged her hands from his grasp, and for a single uneasy moment he thought she was going to slap him. Instead, she held his face in her hands, staring into his eyes with an intent but gentle expression.
"You didn't have to ask," she said slowly, punctuating each word. "I'm volunteering, willingly. I know what life I've signed up for. I know who I'm marrying."
"A poor man," he muttered bitterly, chewing the inside of his cheek.
"A man I love," she corrected. "Who will work hard for his family. As will I."
He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. At some juncture back in Paris, the confident, brazen Dimitri had been replaced with this insecure, petulant mess of a man. It was this country— it must have been. He was a fish out of water here, and more dependent on Anya than he had been on anyone since childhood. At this point, she would be marrying a boy playing pretend in his father's shoes.
"You're right. I'm being stupid," he said at last, bending down to rest his forehead against hers. "My nerves are getting to me."
"Oui, tu es très bête," she teased, patting his face lightly. "But I know where your heart is."
She stepped around him them, retreating back to their bedroom. He followed, blowing on the steaming cup in his hands. They hadn't decorated by any means, but the apartment was starting to look more like theirs. Her red scarf lay neatly folded over his coat, which had been thrown onto the chair in the corner. Their shoes were lined up like sentries by the door, and photographs of Anya's family littered the dresser. She stood in front of the chest of drawers, running her fingers over a photo of her older sisters briefly before yanking open a drawer.
A finely woven blue shawl was pulled from its depths and wrapped elegantly around Anya's shoulders. He hadn't noticed before, but she was wearing one of her nicer day dresses, dark blue cotton with a crisp collar.
"Anyway," she said airily, adjusting the shawl's drape and pinning it in place with an elaborate rose-shaped brooch. "I think I can talk myself into a respectable post. Do I look like a penniless street sweeper?"
He chuckled, stooping to kiss her on the forehead. "No, you look like a dignified working woman."
"And you," she paused to straighten his tie. "Look like a man on a mission. Remind me what you're doing today?"
He answered dutifully. "Je m'appelle Dimitri. Je cherche du travail…"
"...Je viens de St. Petersburg."
The foreman stroked his beard, nodding absently as he beckoned to someone behind Dimitri. "Un autre russe."
This was the third docking gang of the day, and to Dimitri, it seemed the most shorthanded. The burly foreman had look slightly frazzled when he approached asking for a job, and he could see why; a mid-sized cargo liner was just in sight, heading straight for their port. Both of the docks he had visited prior were plenty busy and in search of new workers, but neither were very interested in him once it became clear his vocabulary was extremely limited.
Dimitri felt a heavy hand clap his shoulder. He turned to find a hulking bear of a man behind him, a couple of inches taller than Dimitri and a good deal wider. He looked Dimitri up and down, seemingly unimpressed.
"Just off the train, huh?" The man asked in Russian.
Dimitri straightened, pushing his shoulders back. "Last week, sir."
"Full name?"
"Dimitri Antonovich Sudayev, sir."
"City of origin?"
"St. Petersburg. Or Leningrad, if you prefer."
"I see. Papers, please."
Dimitri's mouth went dry and he stuttered, looking around for a quick exit. No one else had asked for his papers today. Would this man call the authorities on him?
"I...uh, I don't…"
The corner of the man's mouth twitched, and his eyes betrayed silent laughter as he looked down at him. The bastard was messing with him.
"Back to the Soviets with you, then."
"They'll have to kill me first, sir," he sneered with mock politeness.
Finally, a real smile from his interrogator. "I'm Pyotr Sokolov. Shift chief. Ever worked as a longshoreman, kid?"
"Not in an official capacity," he admitted. "I'd unload a couple crates or help with some rigging for a few rubles in Petersburg. Jobs are hard to come by, back home. But I'm strong, and I'll work hard."
Pyotr snorted, shaking his head. "This is difficult work, Dimitri. Dangerous work. I don't have time to teach you the ropes if you're going to fall behind or quit on me. And with no references…"
"I didn't jump off a moving train, sneak out of Russia, and walk across Europe because I was an easy quitter," Dimitri said sharply, lowering his voice. "I'm here to work."
The other man raised an eyebrow. "I thought you took the train?"
"We took the train from Paris," he said, unsure if it was a good idea to be readily admitting all of this. "My wife's grandmother paid our way."
"Wait," Pyotr held up a hand. "You're married?"
Almost. "...Yes."
Pyotr laughed, punching his shoulder. "You should have said so! You can have the job, brother."
Dimitri was elated for the briefest of seconds before Pyotr's words registered, and then he was just left with confusion. "What? Why does it matter that I'm married?"
"Most of the men here are single," he explained. "They come and go with the seasons, chasing work, chasing tail...nothing tying them down. They're unreliable. Married folk want to put down roots, have a steady income. They're stable, see?"
Dimitri nodded. "And you don't want quitters."
Pyotr grasped Dimitri's hand in a firm shake. "Exactly right. Marriage isn't for quitters. You on board?"
He thanked God for his almost-wife.
"Absolutely."
Pyotr was right about it being hard work, but Dimitri relished the opportunity to spend his pent-up nervous energy. It was almost satisfying to feel his muscles burn with the pushing, pulling, and lifting of heavy cargo crates. Now that he was by the water, the city's climate was starting to grow on him too; it was warm, but the wind and mist from the sea stopped him from overheating while he worked. The chatter and occasional whistling from the other men on the crew helped to pass the time. It had been fairly easy to ingratiate himself with the crew; they seemed to appreciate having another pair of hands, and three of them were also Russian.
"A good number of Russians work at the docks," Pyotr said as they offloaded the last of the crates into the bed of the waiting truck. The sun was just starting to set over the water. "Though we, ah, don't always have the best reputation around here."
Dimitri brushed a sweaty strand of hair out of his face. "Why's that?"
Pyotr shrugged. "Does prejudice need a reason?"
Ivan, a short and stocky man with a shock of red hair elbowed Dimitri and mimed downing a bottle. "The French are just mad we can drink them under the table."
"And then we steal the table," gibed Mikhail, a dark-haired man who had once been a university professor in Moscow.
"Do you all speak French?" Dimitri asked, catching a canteen of water from Ivan. He sniffed the contents before drinking, just to be sure.
Pyotr made an uncertain hand gesture. "To varying degrees. I'm just about fluent, as is Mikhail, of course. Ivan likes to think he is, but he's absolutely incoherent when he gets a drop of vodka in him. And Ilia…"
Ilia, who had stayed mostly silent until now, laughed bitterly. He was older, perhaps 45, and wiry, and there was a hardness in his eyes that Dimitri immediately recognized as belonging to a soldier. "I can understand the French pigs, but I'm not talking to them any more than I have to," he said darkly.
"Yes we know, you're very dramatic," Ivan remarked dryly. "And you wonder why the others don't care for you."
Ilia rolled his eyes and walked around to the cab of the truck to speak to the driver. Once this truck carried the last of the day's cargo away, they would be free to go.
Dimitri wiped his face with the handkerchief Anya had stuffed in his pocket that morning. He had long since shucked his jacket, shirt and tie, and now wore the uniform of his compatriots: white undershirt with suspenders clipped to dark trousers. His shoes would have to be traded in for more sensible boots, though. Anya had talked him into wearing the nice pair Vlad had procured for him in Paris, to "make a good impression." He grew sad and more than a little homesick at the thought of his old friend.
He had been meaning to write to him, but wasn't quite sure what to say. Wasn't sure where to even address a letter to, actually. There hadn't been time to say goodbye to Vlad before he left, though he was sure Vlad would have assumed he'd be with Anya. Maybe later that night he would draft a letter and send it to the Dowager Empress, and just hope she's kind enough to forward it to him.
"Alright lads, here's the day's pot," said Pyotr, counting out the bills in his hand. "Busy afternoon, so you'll have something nice to take home to the missus, Dimitri."
He pocketed his francs: six francs for a half day's work was not bad at all. He could pick up a good cut of meat from the butcher on his way home. "I think she'll just be thrilled I found a job."
Mikhail raised a sly brow. "She'll be real...appreciative, then?"
Ivan wolf whistled, jostling Dimitri's shoulders from behind as they left the dock. "Tell us all about that appreciation tomorrow, Sudayev. Let this poor, single man live vicariously."
Dimitri smirked and shrugged the man off. "Go find a grindhouse. Unless you've been banned already for messing around in the back row."
The other men roared with laughter, jeering and thumping Dimitri on the back. Ivan ducked under Pyotr's arm, walking backward as he jabbed a finger at Dimitri with that shit-eating grin.
"Look at the stupid expression on his face. The new boy is getting lucky tonight!"
He wouldn't be, but Ivan's gibes brought a flush to his neck anyway. He and Anya (well, mostly Dimitri) had decided to wait until he found a job before going down to the Catholic Church for a marriage certificate. As impatient as he was to finally (truthfully) call her his wife, he was adamant that he would not be providing "Unemployed" as his Rang, Etat ou Profession on the marriage register. Now he wouldn't have to. And thank God for that— it had been a week of cold baths as he tested the limits of how badly a man could want a woman without losing his damn mind. Rain or shine, they were paying the pastor a visit tomorrow.
It was dark by the time Dimitri trudged up the stairs to his and Anya's apartment, lugging a pound of beef and a sack of potatoes under his arm. It had only been a half day of work at the dock, but he was sore and exhausted, and the sweat dripping down his back had turned cold and clammy in the cooler night air. Still, he had made money, and he was pretty sure he had made a few friends as well. His uneasiness about all the Russian immigrants in Marseille remained, but he was glad at least to talk and joke with people who could understand him. He hadn't said as much to Anya, but it had been slightly maddening this week, following her around like a puppy who couldn't be trusted not to wander off and get lost. It had been lonely, walking around in a sea of unfamiliar voices.
Dimitri juggled the parcels with one arm while trying to find the key that had fallen to the bottom of his bag, beneath the jacket and shirt had had balled up and stuffed inside. Finally, he found the sucker, but before he could fit the key in the lock, the door swung open.
"Dimitri! Are you happy to see me?"
The key clattered to the floor as he stood, slack jawed, staring at his old friend. "Vlad?"
Vlad Popov grinned, leaning jauntily against the doorframe. Behind him, Dimitri could see Anya and Countess Sophie sitting and drinking out of mugs at the kitchen table.
"What? How...What are you doing here?" He managed, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was in the hall. "Should you be here?"
"Are you going to stand there or are you going to come in and greet us properly?" Sophie called from the kitchen, to Anya's muffled laughter.
Vlad grasped Dimitri's arm and pulled him inside, and then enveloped him in a bear hug. "I've missed you, my friend!" The older man said, clapping him on the back heartily.
"It's been barely over a week, Vlad," Dimitri muttered against his friend's shoulder, but couldn't help the smile growing on his face. "I've missed you too."
Sophie had left her seat at the table to pull Vlad away, offering her hand with a wry smile to Dimitri. He bowed and kissed her hand, to the Countess's apparent delight. "Is the Dowager here?" He asked, looking around their small apartment as if Anya had hidden her grandmother in a broom cupboard.
"No, Her Majesty doesn't travel, and it wouldn't be wise for her to do so anyway. People would talk, see," Sophie said, casting a sidelong look to Vlad. "So she sent us to act as her representatives."
"Representatives for what?"
Anya crossed the apartment to him and took his arm, beaming up at him. Her face looked different— somehow rosier."They're here for our wedding, Dimitri! And look, Nana sent us rings."
She lay her palm flat for him to inspect the two burnished silver bands. He picked up the larger of the two rings, slipping it experimentally onto his finger. It fit snuggly but not uncomfortably, and he had to twist the ring with some effort to remove it. Truth be told, he hadn't even spared a thought toward wedding bands. Neither of his parents wore them, and he would have sold such a thing the moment he got his hands on it back in Petersburg.
"She wanted to send you your great-grandmother's diamond ring, but Vlad thought it might...attract attention," Sophie said to Anya.
Dimitri snorted in agreement. "It would have. But this—" he placed the ring back in Anya's palm. "Is perfect. Tell her thank you, Sophie, when you see her again."
"Oh," Anya exclaimed, finally taking notice of the food Dimitri still carried. "Good, we're starving. Vlad and Sophie got here an hour ago, and I had just barely taken off my hat…"
She made to unwrap the meat but Vlad whisked it away with a flourish. "I have a recipe in mind, ma chérie. Go sit. Tell Dimitri about your new job!"
"Your new job?" Dimitri repeated, taking Anya's hand and leading her to the table. "Where is it?"
"Le Bon Marche, the department store down by the cathedral," she supplied, gesturing for Sophie to join them at the table. "I was able to bluff my way into a job."
"A...department store?"
"Very large shops that sell all sorts of nice things," Sophie exclaimed, sipping at her tea. "Dresses, jewelry, bedding, washing machines…"
His head tipped to the side. "They have all of that in one shop?"
"Yes! I'll be selling cosmetics and fragrances. The manager said I have a certain je ne sais quoi that would attract wealthy customers. I wonder why…"
A salesgirl in a posh shop was a far cry from a textile mill worker— Dimitri breathed a sigh of relief. When he leaned in to plant a kiss on her cheek to congratulate her, he could see why she looked different to him. "You're wearing paint," he said, swiping a finger across her eyes and looking at the subtle pink shimmer that was left behind.
"Makeup," she corrected. "They can't have a bare-faced girl selling cosmetics, can they? But you're right, I'll think of it as my war paint."
"Anya!" Vlad called from the pantry. "Anya, where is your rosemary?"
She rolled her eyes. "We don't have any, Vlad."
He whipped around to look at her incredulously. "No rosemary? What about thyme?"
Dimitri rose from his seat while Anya and Sophie laughed, grabbing the salt and pepper shakers from the table. He shoved the salt into Vlad's hand— "Option one," he said, and then the pepper, "Option two."
"Fine," Vlad threw his head back dramatically. "Culinary capital of the world, and we're eating steak with salt and pepper."
