Together in Paris

15.

He looked away from the music box he had caressed, lost in his memories. He hadn't known anything else about her since June 1928. Anastasiya had disappeared, dissolved in the air like a sweet and wonderful dream.

When Fëodorovna had given him the carillon, back then, he almost hadn't wanted to believe it.

“She wants you to keep it.” she had coldly told him after having reached him at the train station in Paris.
And so, here he was.
Tired, sad, absent in his new flat, with his new uniform, with his new hat in his new life in Russia. Alone.
After all, wasn't this what he had expected from the beginning?

He had all he had ever dreamed of. His career was improving, he was the master of his own fate. He had thought for so long he wouldn't have needed anything else but his job in his life.

Funny, he learned the truth too late.

A faint knock came from the small corridor that served as an atrium, a heavy sigh escaped his lips: certainly kozyajka Dilova, having noticed his being downcast, had come upstairs to give him some of her abundant and way too heavy bolsh. Surely she had a hunch for his feelings. She always knew how he was without even asking.
He ran a hand through his hair, got up from his armchair, a second whiff of cat pee inebriated his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose, disgusted.

Note for me: take the copy of the keys from Dilova, the man told himself, remembering that hateful attitude of the woman's cat to go into others' apartments and free itself from its needs. He crossed the living room listlessly, slid into the corridor with heavy steps and leaned against the door handle, taking in a deep breath. He wasn't sure he would have been able to bear Dilova's random chattering and her implying words, above all because he wasn't ready to bear his own thoughts in the first place.
An open, deep wound is difficult to heal quickly.
He felt so nervous, so fragile. He had to be crazy, there was no other sensible explanation at the moment, except maybe for his tiredness. A second knock made him lose all the tranquility he had tried to regain, Gleb pushed the door open, unnerved.

“No, comrade Dilova,” he burst out, “I don't want your b-”

His black eyes rested on a small figure wrapped in a long, black coat, which was partially ripped and a little too big for her small height and build. She had a perfect, oval face, the one of a princess; her full lips were tinged with a soft red, she was slightly made up and she had two, huge, light blue eyes that were so intense to almost tear him apart; long, wavy strands of blond-but-copper-like hair slid down her slender shoulders pads and there, on her head, rested a proud and worn Bolshevik soldier hat.

His.

The man found himself gasping. It wasn't possible, it couldn't be true, he was imagining things that didn't exist — that girl couldn't be her ... could she?
The young woman gave him a grim, almost sarcastic smile, a shiver ran through his body.

“Hi ... ” she murmured hesitantly in her melodious voice. Gleb suddenly straightened up, fixed his uniform jacket, ran a hand through his hair and, uncomfortable, began to fidget with the belt he had untied.

“A-Anya!” he exclaimed, “I mean, Anastasiya! Your Highness!”
He fell down on his knee, hiding his face in his hand, so red now that he couldn't almost feel his cheeks any more.

“Oh, no, there's no need!” she said, and he shot up on his feet, again. The young woman restrained a giggle.

“May I ... come in?”

“Sure!” he replied, without even thinking. He moved from the door to allow her to enter the flat, and she hesitantly slipped inside, wiping the elegant boots she wore on the carpet before of putting a foot in the house. He saw her looking around, curious. He approached her, so agitated that he didn't even use a bit of his brain to maintain a minimum of self-control: he was so happy! And scared! And confused!