The Memory Painter

*

Alexander floated in and out of consciousness until Natalia’s screams roused him, and he knew he was back home.

He opened his eyes to find her crying on his chest, and tried to offer her comfort through his pain. “Do not shed tears, my love. It is over.”

He stroked her hair, feeling her sobs against his body. The public—or the mob, as he liked to call them—had called her cold and selfish and questioned her devotion to him time and time again. But he did not have to explain their love; it filled his heart.

During the days that followed, he stayed lucid, but only for pockets of time, as eight doctors—including the Tsar’s personal physician—visited his bedside in an attempt to save him. They all knew he was dying. His spirit lingered only because of Alexander’s determination to leave this life without debt so his family would be free.

In the moments when he was awake, he dictated a list detailing his liabilities, along with a letter to the Tsar asking to be absolved of his obligations. The reply came within a day. Alexander smiled when he read it. The Tsar, who had clipped his wings and prevented him from going abroad, prevented his work from being published—prevented so many things—had freed him in the end.

He laid his head back on his pillow and stared at his library, where the books he had written sat next to others like old friends. He would miss this life, but he felt happy to leave behind his writing. They were the pages that contained his heart.

He heard Natalia enter the room. “We don’t have cloudberries,” she said, “but we have cloudberry jam.”

Alexander held out his hand. “Feed it to me?” She sat beside him. He opened his mouth, feeling the spoon slip inside. The jam tasted like ambrosia. He swallowed it and said, “I want you to remarry.” Natalia held the next spoonful midair, her lip quivering. Though Alexander did not want to continue, he did. “Mourn me and then let my memory go. Find a good man, someone who will provide for you better than I have.”

Natalia broke down. “A good man? You are the only good man.” She clenched her hand into a fist. “I wish I had been born a man. As God is my witness, if I were a man I would hunt down d’Anthès and kill him.”

Alexander tried to calm her, but she continued to work herself into a state. “I should have been a man, then I could make him pay for what he’s done!”

Alexander closed his eyes, unable to stop a smile, imagining his Natalia out for vengeance. How he would miss her. He had known innumerable women in his life, but he had wanted none of them for his own until Natalia. He loved her beauty, her charm, and her girlishness—how polar opposite they were, but how well they understood each other. No one could drive him madder or soothe his spirit more.

He hoped the world would be kind to her. She was not to blame for this fiasco. His friends had told him d’Anthès still lived, having only suffered a wounded arm. Just as well, he thought. He did not want to have the man’s death on his conscience. Perhaps he was the lucky one. D’Anthès would have his death marked on his soul, a blemish surely impossible to erase.

Alexander’s mind took him back to his poem. Two days had passed since the duel and he had not yet written it. Perhaps he should ask Natalia for his pen.

He tried to form the words on his lips, but became distracted as a light drew near, growing brighter with its warmth. The figure of a woman stood shining within it, holding out her hand for him.

Alexander gazed at her in wonder, knowing he must be dreaming. Lada herself, the ancient goddess of beauty and love, had sprung from a favorite folktale and come for him.

But her hair was black as night, her eyes a wondrous indigo. Jeweled bands spiraled up her arms and around her neck, and a golden headdress graced the crown of her head like an Egyptian queen. She spoke to him with her eyes, and somehow Alexander heard the words, All that you are will be remembered.

His entire being filled with peace as his spirit reached out to take her hand. With a last fleeting thought about the poem, he assured himself, I will write it when I wake.

*

Bryan opened his eyes and saw the painting of Natalia before him. She was lovely even in her grief, clutching her husband’s hand as he took his final breath: He had just painted the moment of Alexander Pushkin’s death.

Unable to fight the tide of memories, Bryan heard the Russian words pour from him as he cried for Natalia, for their children, for a life now irrevocably gone.

His rational mind tried to gain control. He forced his breathing to slow and whispered his mantra. “I am here now, I’m here now, I’m here now, I’m here now…”