Gwen borrowed her grandfather’s wagon to drive the four of them to the tiny fishing village on the other end of the island. It was ten o’clock before they arrived at Smitty’s General Store, where the town’s only telegraph machine was located. Mr. Smitty lived above the shop and came downstairs to facilitate the message in exchange for a few dollars.
The store smelled of coffee and tobacco. There were a few shelves of canned food, some larger barrels of oats and flour, and a service counter with three stools and a soda fountain.
“Where is the message going?” Mr. Smitty asked as he pulled the cover from the telegraph machine. With his wire spectacles and shiny bald head, he looked too old to still be working, but Gwen was grateful for his ability to operate the telegraph.
“Khabarovsk, Siberia,” Natalia said.
Mr. Smitty’s eyes widened, and he scratched his head in confusion. “I don’t know the operating codes for a place like that.”
“I have them.” Natalia confidently rattled off a string of numbers. Apparently, she was in frequent enough contact with the count to have memorized the station. Gwen sat on a stool alongside Patrick and Liam as Natalia settled in beside Mr. Smitty on the other side of the counter.
“You’ll want to make yourselves comfortable,” Natalia said. “By the time Count Sokolov gets to the telegraph station, he likes to chat for a while before agreeing to do business. We’re in for a long night.”
Natalia dictated the first message to Mr. Smitty, requesting that the count be summoned to the train station office for a business transaction. Gwen purchased bottles of Coca-Cola for everyone, along with a sack of salted peanuts. While they awaited Count Sokolov’s return message, Natalia explained how she’d been working with Count Sokolov on the construction of the massive Trans-Siberian Railway. The bank supplied funding for their steel, coal, and food supplies, and the count was in charge of a railroad segment through rural Siberia, meaning he was lonely, isolated, and bored out of his mind.
With the kerosene lanterns turned on high, the interior of the general store felt warm and surprisingly cozy as they waited for the count’s response. Liam was completely engrossed in talking baseball with Natalia and Mr. Smitty, a subject guaranteed to bore Gwen into oblivion.
What would Patrick do if she slid her foot along the outside of his ankle? She kicked her shoe off to lift the hem of his trousers with her toe and slide it inside.
Patrick jerked upright but kept staring straight ahead. He pretended not to notice her wandering toes, but a flush quickly stained his cheekbones. She battled a smile as she slid her foot higher. How deliciously fun it was to flirt with her feet as the tedious baseball discussion dragged on.
Count Sokolov must have arrived at the train station to respond to their message, because the telegraph machine suddenly clattered to life with a message from the other side of the world. The message seemed to ramble on and on.
“Is he always this verbose?” Mr. Smitty asked as the ticker tape continued spitting out of the machine.
“Always,” Natalia confirmed.
It took ten minutes for Mr. Smitty to translate the rambling string of Morse code and hand it over to Natalia. Her eyes traveled over the message, and then she read it aloud for the others.
Dearest Natalia. Tragic news. I fear I am about to die, for the beds at this outpost are little better than devices of torture. This morning I awoke in agony from a cramp in my neck. I must chop off my head to ease the misery. It is the only solution. I bid you the fondest of farewells. Dimitri.
Natalia looked at Gwen. “You see what I mean? This is typical, and I’m afraid we will need to exchange several such messages before he is willing to get down to business, but I’ll try to get him on track quickly.”
She dictated her response to Mr. Smitty:
Sir. Please delay the beheading until after I have your vote for the July bank meeting.
It was the first of many exchanges. Count Sokolov’s messages were long-winded and deliberately avoided discussions of “tedious business,” as he phrased it. He complained of the cold and how difficult it was to keep his violin tuned in the semi-arctic climate. When Natalia asked for his authorization to continue funding Blackstone College, the count wanted to know if the college taught poetry and if they agreed with him that Russian poetry was superior to the bland pablum written by American poets. Then he veered off into a discussion of the fragrant juniper berries he’d found, wondering if he should try his hand at distilling perfume.
Natalia glanced at Gwen. “Can juniper berries be used for perfume?”
“Will it move the conversation along if I provide a recipe for him?”
“He will be over the moon.”
The store owner passed his notebook over, and Gwen scribbled a basic procedure for how to distill the essence of the berries and then combine the oil with an infusion of alcohol. Natalia sent the perfume recipe, giving complete credit to her cousin Gwen. She finished the message by trying to veer the conversation back on track.
Please consider it a gesture of goodwill in exchange for your vote to continue funding the college.
Instead of agreeing, Count Sokolov’s return message was disheartening.
Gwen. Is that short for Gwendolyn?
When Natalia replied that it was, the telegraph nearly exploded with a cascade of clicks that took Mr. Smitty several minutes to decode. When he finished, Mr. Smitty cleared his throat and looked nervously at Natalia. “I don’t think this message is relevant. Perhaps I should throw it away.”
He started balling up the scrap of paper, but Patrick grabbed it. “I need to know exactly what Count Sokolov said. Legal negotiations depend on precise wording, even if it seems irrelevant.”
Gwen watched Patrick as he read the message, his face darkening. He was scowling when he finally looked up.
“Mr. Smitty is correct,” he said, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “This is rambling silliness and should be thrown away.”
Natalia disagreed and snatched the message to read it aloud.
Natalia. Please tell your cousin that I disapprove of her nickname. Gwendolyn is a beautiful name that is feminine, poetic, and charming. Gwen is a savagely blunt syllable that is devoid of the lyricism of her true name. Why do American women do this? Life is too short to opt for crude practicality over beauty and elegance. Please advise your cousin to reconsider how she presents herself to the world.
Liam snickered. “If the count is worried about how Gwen presents herself, I wonder what he’d think of those shapeless gowns she wears.”
“They’re not shapeless,” Gwen defended. “These gowns are very fashionable in Europe.”
“They make you look like you should be eating for two,” Liam said.
Gwen looked heavenward. “Imagine . . . all these years I missed having an older brother to torment me.” She turned her attention back to Natalia. “Is that man ever going to let us discuss the vote?”
“Eventually,” Natalia said. “I warned you that he always does this before he lets me get down to business. I think he’s just terribly lonely.”
Minutes stretched into hours as the message exchange continued. It was almost midnight before they got the message they had been waiting for.
You know I trust your judgment, Natalia. Of course you may vote my bank shares however you wish.