SOFIA YAKOVNA had long considered herself the heroine of this miserable novel. And the novel, was of course, miserable. The narrative had been punctuated, perhaps, by enough joy, enough warmth, a sip of wine, a dance beneath a chandelier, to redden her lips and her cheeks, to keep her hairs handsomely golden. But the pen of dreadful Fate had written a tragedy, and to that end, the heroines of tragedies, she once heard herself say, always came to Moscow. They stepped off carriages or trains in long, threadbare cloaks and cried and dabbed their eyes, but Sofia had arrived smartly. She set foot firmly because Armageddon had come, and yet, she stood. And stand she would because stand she always had.
Heroines loved Moscow. They held it in their hands like a beacon and prayed to be nourished by its warmth. But it would engulf them in its flames and leave them charred. And so, Sofia Yakovna hated Moscow. But still there was reason to come.
An estate and a need to show her loyalty, her respect, her continued worth. It had been long since she stepped into a proper house; the war had been spent in darkened rooms, head and face covered, playing the role of landlady’s cousin, or private seamstress, or beggar woman spy. Useful but different. But she was a woman of many parts, many faces, and this twist was an odd one, a step back into a costume long ago discarded.
“It’s as though you don’t even recognize your Tyotya Sonya, little sparrow.” She spoke with the faintest smile, voice lilting and bright, a harsh contrast to the more rigid hand poised against the collar of her coat. “Or must I call you Nikolai Dmitrievich now? I know young men like things their way. And I think most young men go by Comrade now, hm?” She said this with feigned ignorance, stumbling to locate a word she already knew. “Ah, but you’ll forgive me. This is a happy reunion, and I’ve arrived empty-handed.”
@kolkuh