Independence Square by A. D. Miller

Author:A. D. Miller
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Epub3
Publisher: Pegasus Books

5

The Virgin

1 December

Simon passed through the gate in the bell tower of St Sophia’s, powder blue against the white sky, and crossed the silent courtyard. Several inches of snow lay on the ground, pristine but for the shallow imprint of birds’ feet. He entered the cathedral and stomped his boots on the mat, disoriented, momentarily, by the sepulchral interior, the frescoes blurring in the vaulted shadows, the whiff of incense that nauseated before it tranquilised. The gloom was offset by the gilt of the iconostasis, its golden sheen illuminating the murk.

He peered into the side chapels. Kovrin wasn’t there. Two elderly women in headscarves lit candles in the chancel, mumbling incomprehensible prayers.

‘Thank you so much for coming.’

Thibaut was standing behind him, close to a scale model of Kiev in the time of ancient Rus. Simon removed his hat.

‘Don’t mention it. But this is rather a busy afternoon, as I’m sure you can appreciate, with all the ministers in town. I’m afraid I—’

‘Mr Kovrin will be here in a moment,’ Thibaut said. ‘Only a moment. He prefers to talk upstairs. If you don’t mind.’

He indicated the aisle that ran behind the pillars at the rear of the cathedral. Simon complied, passing beneath the blank gaze of fading archangels, his footsteps clattering on the iron tiles with their mysterious, zodiacal designs. He found the spiral stairwell and climbed up to the balcony. Thibaut followed.

‘Cold today, no?’ Thibaut said. ‘Colder than yesterday, I think.’ He smiled.

‘Quite possibly,’ Simon said. ‘He’s on his way, you say?’ He drew back his coat sleeve to look at his watch.

Below them, the machine-gun rap of Kovrin’s heels on the tiles heralded his approach. He emerged from the staircase, trailing two bodyguards, steepling his hands in pantomime supplication as he crossed the balcony towards them.

‘Simon! My friend!’

He spread his arms as if for an embrace. Simon decommissioned his hands into his pockets.

‘Thibaut,’ Kovrin said, ‘could you . . .’

He flicked his head towards a man in dungarees and wire-rimmed spectacles, perched on a stepladder to restore a panel of the balcony’s ceiling. Engrossed, the man seemed not to have noticed their entrance. Thibaut strode over and called up to him; the man glanced at Kovrin, pressed his glasses to the bridge of his nose and scuttled down the ladder and away, leaving his paints and brushes behind. Thibaut hovered at the top of the staircase, gloves dangling from his hand. He undid his coat. The bodyguards retreated into the shadows by the wall, their faces blending with the pallid frescoed saints.

‘She’s beautiful, no?’ Kovrin leaned on the stone parapet that overlooked the mosaic in the apse. The Virgin’s halo and shawl were shaped in gold against a golden background. ‘She’s one thousand years old. One thousand! From my point of view, she’s very beautiful.’

Simon met the heavy-lidded, Asiatic eyes in the Virgin’s mannish face. The harmlessly narcotic aroma of incense wafted from the chapels. Kovrin crossed himself.

‘Magnificent,’ Simon said. ‘Now what was it you wanted—’

‘Is because of love, you know that? Why Vladimir, famous prince, why he took us into our church.

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