Read Online Encore by Monique Raphel High - Free Book Online Page B

bordered by lovely houses of one or two stories, with façades of delicately wrought stone or graceful pillars.
    Moscow possessed four hundred churches, as well as museums and historical monuments. The Kremlin was a city unto itself, with its own churches, large and small palaces, houses built at various epochs and of different architectural styles—a heterogeneous conglomeration that was nonetheless imposing. Boris took his bride to visit it as soon as they arrived. Then he brought her to the Slavinsky Bazaar, a restaurant where the waiters were clothed in white, their collars and cuffs adorned with embroidery, and a wide, supple belt cinching their waists. He ordered a traditionally Russian meal for her: borsht, pirozhkis filled with cabbage, chicken, and for dessert, kissel, a fruit-and-sugar compote. They drank kvass, the ordinary peasant drink made from fermented wheat. Marguerite thought the dinner a vast success and laughed nervously during its progression. Her cheekbones were very red and she clenched and unclenched her hands a dozen times.
    He had reserved the bridal suite at the Hotel de l’Ours, and when he took her upstairs, he said: “I think that I should like to walk around a little, my dear.” While he was gone, she readied herself, but he did not return as quickly as she might have expected. He had gone downstairs then out into the city, his mind a fog and an angry blur. She rang for the hall maid and expressed concern: It was past one in the morning, and it was cold outside. But he had forgotten the time, willing himself to forget it. It was only when the church chimes in some godforsaken neighborhood rang two o’clock that he shook himself from his stupor. Nobody could help him now. God had long ago stopped caring, for Boris had himself left religion behind him in his adolescence. And who else would have brought comfort to a man of thirty-three, fit and able?
    He retraced his steps, hoping that Marguerite would have possessed sufficient sense and modesty to have gone to sleep. He entered the sitting room and received a jolt: The chandelier was brightly lit. He heard her moaning slightly, and there she was, on the threshold of the bedroom, her long, thin blond hair spread like a mantle over the bony shoulders. “Oh, Borya!” she cried. “My darling, are you quite well? What happened?”
    Attempting to avoid her eyes, he said with annoyance, “I am not accustomed to being watched, Marguerite. I’ve lived too many years as a bachelor for you to expect me to change my ways so quickly. I merely stepped out, that’s all. If you become hysterical every time this happens, I shall not be able to tolerate it.”
    â€œBut this is our wedding night!” she exclaimed. Her shoulders drooped. “Boris—please. I’m your wife now. The train—”
    At this he suddenly became very red and glared at her. “Are you, or are you not, a lady?” he asked her roughly. “If you are, then pray behave as one. I took you to be modest.” And abruptly, trembling all over, he turned away. There was a decanter of Napoleon brandy upon the sideboard in the sitting room, and he tried to pour himself a thimbleful. His hand could not stop shaking. He spilled the liquor. Marguerite watched him, truly terrified now and also ashamed. She began to whimper.
    He turned to face her, and thus to face his own demons squarely. Her large breasts, unsupported in the frail lace of the nightgown, loomed ominously in his field of vision, and he felt a surge of illness. If only she had been compact, well muscled, and small. Her bones showed in the wrong places, and the breasts—oh, God! the breasts! He swallowed down a spew of bile and clutched the sideboard for support. After all, it couldn’t be worse than the cocottes of his early youth. Remember that: It couldn’t be worse. At least she was not vulgar, as they had been.
    He followed her into the bedroom,