The Summer Guest by Alison Anderson Page A

sound the bells made. And it was an onomatopoeia . Dong. Not so nice in English. Evening Dong. No, definitely not. Ah, the poverty of English. She sat there and said zvon aloud several times, as if ringing a bell. She liked the idea that Levitan had given his painting a cross-sensory title. She would look for the reproduction, later.
    Now they were standing on another riverbank, without a bridge, and she didn’t know who would get them across this time. How wonderful it had been, to have that kind young man literally step into her life. She was not sure that she was still the same young woman he had found eating her ice cream, or that he was the same ferryman. They’d had many good times together, despite the difficulties, and he had given her the best life. Her mother often told her that, in almost every letter, every phone call.
    She had not told her mother anything about her current troubles. She did not want to disillusion her or give her added cause for concern.
    Later that day, she found the postcard of Evening Bells in a shoebox of small, insignificant treasures she had kept from that other life. Other postcards, badges, tickets to the Moscow Art Theatre, the Conservatory. The painting was not altogether as she rememberedit; for a moment she wondered if their conversation about crossing the river could really have taken place. On this side, the road seemed more of a footpath for fishermen to reach their boats; on the other side, it brought villagers to enjoy the river.
    She propped the postcard against the saltshaker on the kitchen table.
    Peter came home in the middle of the afternoon, unshaven and smelling of whisky. He told her he had slept at the office again, which was what she had suspected, although he had not answered her calls.
    What’s this? he asked when he sat down for tea and saw Evening Bells.
    Levitan.
    The painter? Chekhov’s friend?
    Yes.
    How did you get this?
    He flipped it over, saw the inscription in Russian on the back.
    I’ve had it. I kept it. Remember?
    Remember what?
    The Tretyakov Gallery. The day after the day we met.
    We went there the day after the day we met?
    Yes, Peter. You told me you fell in love with me over this painting.
    It’s this one, is it?
    Well, it wasn’t Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan.
    Why don’t I remember it?
    She went over to him, put one hand on his head, the other around his shoulder. Because . . . you have a lot on your mind. Because memory is selective. Because you remember Levitan as Chekhov’s friend and not as the witness to the moment we fell in love.
    You always told me I fell in love first.
    You forget I grew up in the Soviet Union. We’re very good at rewriting history.
    He laughed, shook his head, then looked up at her, his eyes shining. After a moment his smile faded and he said, You won’t leave me, will you, Kate, no matter what happens with the business?
    She kissed him on the forehead. We’ll find a way, she said.

June 1, 1888
    There seems to be a terrific amount of coming and going at the guesthouse. Noise, shouting: Two of Anton Pavlovich’s brothers have arrived. Nikolay and Ivan. Nikolay is an artist. According to Natasha, who has been talking to Masha, he is very gifted but leads a regrettably dissolute life, squandering his talents and reputation (she said this with a mixture of irony and admiration) on drinking and women and borrowing money he doesn’t pay back. Ivan, on the other hand, is quiet and hardworking and terribly good. He’s a teacher, a solid citizen. And he’s very good-looking, even more handsome than Anton Pavlovich, she suggests.
    How odd. I have not met Anton Pavlovich’s brothers, yet I feel a pinch of jealousy. Natasha says they go everywhere with him. Although I’ve known him scarcely a month, I have grown altogether too dependent on my ability to catch his attention and share some of his precious time—as if I had my own appointed moments in his