Now, Lara is a cop’s daughter, so maybe she’s a little better than most at functioning under pressure. Still, I could probably walk right up to her and strike up a conversation without her remembering me at all.
Not that I’m gonna test that theory.
I just want to watch her for a minute.
Maybe sneak a look inside her little sketchbook.
So, I enter the cafe. I pass right by her table, heading toward the counter to order. She doesn’t even glance up.
I order a coffee and a sausage roll. Then I sit down right behind her to eat.
I’m sitting just over her left shoulder, about four tables back. I can see about a third of her face, whenever she turns her head to glance out the window.
I’m pleased to see that she’s dressed better today. She ditched the awful librarian clothing, and now she’s wearing a loose, faded t-shirt from some Berliner band, cut-off shorts, and sneakers. She looks younger and happier.
I’m glad to see that she’s not too traumatized by what we did to her.
I don’t know why I felt guilty about it. It’s not like we hurt her. But the way she begged me not to put the blindfold over her eyes . . . it was pitiful.
Anyway, I’ve seen that she’s fine now, so I should leave.
But I don’t leave.
I sit behind her for more than an hour, watching her.
There shouldn’t be anything interesting about a girl sketching and drinking tea. And yet, I can’t pull my eyes away from her.
She has so many pretty features:
Her fingernails—short, unpolished, but as pink as seashells.
The smooth, golden skin on her bare legs, and her round little calves when she folds one ankle over the other beneath the table.
Her shiny strands of hair that lay straight and flat, with their soft tips looking like a paintbrush soaked in ink. I’d like to wrap a strand of her hair around my finger to see if it’s truly black, or if there’s brown or red mixed in. I bet it feels like silk.
But her prettiest feature is those big, dark eyes. Those I can’t see at all; I just remember them. I catch a glimpse of her fringe of dark lashes every time she turns her head.
I stand up, under the pretext of getting more napkins, to take a peek at her sketchbook.
I thought she must be drawing something outside because she kept looking out the window. But instead I see she’s drawing some kind of shape or design. It must be something she’s imagining, because she keeps erasing parts of it and trying again.
Eventually she finishes all her tea. Abruptly, she closes her sketchbook and slips it into her leather satchel. She slings her bag over her shoulder, conscientiously clearing her table of crumbs with a crumpled-up napkin.
I had already finished eating long before. I wait for her to leave the cafe, then I follow after her a moment later.
It’s easy to tail someone on a crowded city street. People never look behind them when they walk. And the idea that you can “feel someone looking at you” is total nonsense, too.
I follow Lara for several blocks, staying only fifteen or twenty feet behind her. She never notices a thing. She’s too entranced by all the shops we pass, the street vendors, the trees beginning to bloom.
Spring comes to St. Petersburg in April, not in March. It doesn’t truly get warm until May, and even then, rain or snow can surprise you.
That’s why the streets are packed on sunny days like this. Everyone is so desperate for light after a long winter. The smell of new grass, new leaves. The sight of other people walking slowly and smiling, not hurrying along all hunched and bundled up.
Lara seems particularly thrilled by it all. She touches everything she passes—a little pink bloom on a vine climbing up a trellis. The silk scarves for sale at one of the street vendor’s booths. A cat sunning itself on a planter box.
The only tricky thing about keeping sight of her is how petite she is. She can disappear behind anybody taller. Also, she’s walking slowly. It’s hard for me to look natural walking at less than half my normal pace. Even if she were hurrying, she’d have to take two steps for every one of mine. At least her straight black hair shines like lacquer in the sunlight, so I can easily pick her out again when I lose sight of her for a moment.
She’s heading over to the square where St. Michael’s Castle is located, as well as the Hermitage Museum. Tourist season is just beginning, so these streets are packed with Asians, Americans, and Europeans, everyone taking selfies and wandering around erratically.
One chubby lady raises her phone and takes a quick snap of me, as if I’m one of the local attractions. I scowl at her, narrowly resisting the urge to snatch the phone out of her hand and smash it on the sidewalk. She stumbles backward, looking frightened.
When I push past her, I’ve lost Lara again.
Goddamnit.
I don’t know why I feel so compelled to follow her. I’m supposed to be tracking down Gregor today, not her.
Yet I’m anxious, scanning the crowd for her dark hair.
My only guess is that she might have ducked inside the museum. She likes art, after all.
I step into the cool stone lobby and pay my entrance fee.
I turn into the first gallery and there she is, looking at some old vase.
My heart rate slows. I feel a rush of pleasure at having found her.
I like the look of her curvy little figure, poorly concealed by the loose top. I like the way she crosses her arms and looks up at the paintings, her hair hanging in a straight sheet down her back.
I’d rather look at her than any of the art. I’m enjoying watching her like this, peaceful and absorbed, compared to how frightened and infuriated she was the first time I met her.
Then she was a little bird, caught in a snare.
Now she’s back in the woods, where she believes that she’s safe.
She doesn’t know she’s under the shadow of a hawk.
8
Lara
I’ve been longing to go to the Hermitage Museum ever since we came to St. Petersburg. It’s the second-largest art museum in the world, after the Louvre, where I’ve also never been.
This may sound stupid, but I like that it was founded by Catherine the Great. I love women who managed to seize power in a time when they were routinely brutalized by men, when they had less rights than a prize horse. It’s hard enough for a woman to control her own destiny in the modern age. God knows I haven’t managed it.
And then you have Catherine, organizing a coup against her own husband. Seizing control of one of the largest and wildest countries in the world. And not just managing it—fucking flourishing at it. Making Russia bigger, stronger, more modern and more successful, until it was one of the greatest powers in Europe.
I wish I could be a woman like that. I’ve only ever done one rebellious thing in my life, and I haven’t pulled it off yet. In fact, terror and regret still threaten to overwhelm me every day.
But I’m trying. And every day I’m getting braver.
Like today.
I swore I’d come to see this museum, even though I know Pavel doesn’t want me to stray so far from the apartment, and he’ll be angry if he finds out.
He almost lost his mind at me being kidnapped from the police station. I don’t know if his pride or his sense of protectiveness was hurt most.