Guess whose muse decided to check in and make them write until two in the morning? *sigh* Anyway, sorry for the wait (again) and hopefully this fickle muse of mine will stick around for a little longer so I can get a couple more chapters up soon. Cheers!
When Gleb woke up, he lay still for a moment. Something was different, but he couldn't quite put his finger in it. What had happened? And then he knew what it was. For the first time in weeks, he hadn't dreamt about Anya. The knowledge gave him a strange feeling with too many emotions in it to easily identify what it really was. Unsettled? Pleased? Sad? Lonely? Relieved? After a few minutes, he gave up. Getting up carefully, he got dressed and ready for the day.
His second day of bartending had been even better than the first. The only thing that went wrong was that Elena hadn't managed to rid the kitchen of her mother. Mme. Dassin had laughed good-naturedly at his awkward expression as he bumped clumsily into the kitchen.
"So this is why Elena was so keen to get rid of all of us yesterday. I thought that she'd suddenly taken a disliking to her family," was her only comment, accompanied by a wink and a motherly smile. Gleb found himself draw to Elena's mother. He had been without one for many years and sensed in her the same loving concern for the human race in general that his own mother had shown. It was bittersweet for him to see someone that reminded him so much of her. Ekaterina Ivanovna Vaganova had been a sweet yet delicate woman. She had never recovered from her husband's death and had followed Mikhail to the grave a bare two months later. Her death had left a hole in Gleb's heart that nothing had been able to fill. Over the years, he had learned to ignore how he felt and carry on with his life, his work, his father's legacy. Until…
Gleb sighed and looked at the clock. If he didn't hurry, he'd be embarrassed in front of more people than just Mme. Dassin and Elena.
He made his way into the hallway. As he lowered himself down at the head of the stairs, one of his crutches slipped from his grasp and slid down the stairs, clattering noisily. Gleb cursed and then bit his tongue. He'd been trying to curb his language lately. Elena's remark about him "cursing like a sailor" had stuck with him and he was determined to overcome his habit of using profanity.
Elena appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her face a picture of concern.
"Are you alright?" she asked, hurrying up to where he sat.
"Just mortified," he replied rubbing his face with his free hand. "I suppose every man, woman, and child in this building is about to come running to see what caused the racket."
Elena raised one eyebrow.
"Hardly," she said then seemed to think for a moment. "Just most of them," she added.
Gleb groaned and struggled upright.
"I am going to learn to use my crutches on the stairs if it kills me," he declared.
Elena sighed.
"You know, Gleb, the trouble is it might do just that."
-xxxx-
By the time that Gleb had reached the bar, two of the regulars were already waiting. He hurried about as fast as his crutches, and the various new bumps and bruises that he had gotten that morning, allowed. Elena already had a pot of tea made up in the kitchen, so all he had to do was add the correct amount alcohol to each cup: Bourbon for the thin grey man and Scotch for the one with the whiskers.
It had been decided that Gleb would take over the early shift since he could easily handle the few customers that came in, leaving Henri free to help with the outside work. Around noon, he would go on kitchen duty: chopping, peeling, and generally making himself useful while not getting in the way. As the inn filled up for the evening, however, Gleb would be back at the bar to help Henri. Gleb had found that he liked all three. After the quiet shift in the morning, the chatty kitchen environment was a welcome change and the evening bar shift was exciting, even if it was a little stressful at times. All in all, Gleb was well pleased with the new arrangement and the rest of the Dassin family seemed glad to have an extra pair of helping hands.
-xxxx-
Gleb set the glass down and deftly poured a shot which he slid in front of the man who was seated before him.
"Voilà, monsieur!"
The man took the glass with fumbling hands. Gleb watched his clumsy movements with considerable amusement. Practically raised in the Russian military as he was, the sight of someone getting tipsy after a bare two shots was something of an absurd novelty for him. Now he smothered a laugh as the man in question banged his glass back down on the bar top.
"Plus!" he mumbled, almost falling off his bar stool.
Gleb cocked an eyebrow at him.
"You've had more than is good for you, my friend," he said in Russian, shaking his head.
The man blinked owlishly at him.
"Que…?"
Gleb sighed. Did he get more alcohol for this man who was clearly drunk off his arse or did he cut him off?
Glancing down the length of the bar, Gleb's eye was caught by a small flurry of movement where a new customer had pushed his way forward. Seeing that Henri was already engaged with someone else, he left the tipsy Frenchman swaying on his stool, grabbed his crutches from where he had propped them against the wall, and hurried to this newest man, who was sitting hunched on his stool, apparently studying the bar top.
"Bonsoir, monsieur. Puis-je vous aider?" he asked.
The man glanced up and Gleb had to fight the sudden urge to drop his crutches and run from the room. It was Konstantin Aleksandrov, Supreme Commander of the Leningrad division and one of the most feared men in the entirety of the Bolshevik military. His ridged face and steel-grey hair left no doubt of it: they had caught him at last.
Gleb stood there, too shocked to do much more than stare. He could feel sweat break out all over him and his heart pounded in his chest as though it would fall out.
"Un shot de vodka, s'il vous plait," Gleb started as the man spoke. His heavy Russian accent made the words all but undecipherable and once he had given his order, he looked back down at the bar top, seemingly uninterested in his surroundings.
Gleb still stood frozen for a moment and then gave a belated nod and hurried to the rack where they kept the shot glasses and then to the bottle section where he selected a fine Finnish vodka. He set the glass down in front of Konstantin and poured the shot with trembling hands.
The Russian officer grabbed it quickly and tossed it back with the air of long practice.
With a sigh, he set it back down and glanced up at Gleb, seeming to hesitate as if in thought, and then simply gestured to his empty glass and then to the bottle which Gleb still held clutched in his hand. Pour me another, boy, the gesture said. Gleb obliged and Konstantin tossed it back with the same ease as the first. Somewhat to Gleb's surprise, the officer gestured to his glass again. How many is he doing in a row? Gleb wondered, but poured a third shot as well. This time, however, Konstantin sipped it slowly, taking no more notice of the young man before him.
After standing just long enough to make sure he was no longer needed, Gleb turned and bolted for the kitchen as fast as he could manage on his crutches. Right as he reached the threshold, however, something made him turn.
Looking back down the bar, he could see Konstantin still nursing his vodka. Beyond the man's head, a sudden light appeared as the door to the inn was opened. The sun was setting outside and its slanting rays glinted on the golden hair of the young woman who had just entered. A taller, dark-haired man followed the woman, closing the door behind them, but Gleb barely even registered his presence. One look at the face of the woman who had just arrived, and he could feel what blood was left in his own face drain away. It was Anya.
French Translation:
Plus! – More!
Que…? – What…?
Bonsoir, monsieur. Puis-je vous aider? – Good evening, mister. Can I help you?
Un shot de vodka, s'il vous plait – A shot of vodka, please.
A/N - Konstantin Aleksandrov is a completely fictitious. The actual commander of Leningrad/St. Petersburg in the 1920's was a man named Mikhail Tukachevsky. I found his name in the Google Books version of Leningrad: State of Siege. I think they have a little more information on him there if anyone's interested.