Regina Saxony
on the topic of her sailor
“Oh, who is he?” Her mother taps her crooked fingers on the top of the wood. The nails make a dreadful sound that clicks in the center of Regina, only heightening the anxiety and her redness gathering in her cheeks.
She imagines Ilya there with his musky scent mixed with the slightest notes of that strong grain alcohol he tortured himself with. He’d had two shots of it every night since he was thirteen, or so he claimed, the navy had forced him to take a sabbatical. “His name is Ilya Volkov, he’s with the Russian Navy protecting the Baltic,” Regina proudly juts her chin up, only to meekly duck her head back into the reflection of her teacup. Her frizzy, impossible reflection only managed to stare back at her through the orange tinted nightmare without a solace.
“What is his rank, dear, this is what matters.”
Stirring her tea slightly, the clings of the cheap silver on the porcelain echoed throughout the poor acoustics of the concrete box in an utter, utter clarity. Regina’s stomach churned, whether with hunger or pure nervousness, she could not discern. Her mother’s pupils widened, a polite smile perched upon her quiet chin. “Private Ilya Volkov of the Russian Navy.”
“Of the Imperial Russian Navy, child, the Tsar is not dead yet.”
Regina bit her lip. She knew it would eventually come up during this visit. “You think that not having a tsar is a good thing? Think about this little apartment stuffed with four other people—that’s what this communism will do,” She angrily spits, the fear in her eyes causing them to widen, to expand with a knowing that if the Bolsheviks ceased power, their beautiful estate would fall in on itself. An enforced life of modesty would crash down upon the castle her mother had married into and leave it as smoldering ashes in the perfectly green grass. “You were born to a life of privilege, you’re not Regina Zhestakova, you’re Regina Saxony of Emelia Saxony hailing from Dorset, England, and you won’t forget it.”
“Why did you ever marry my father?” Regina retorts in an angry snide, the words and intonations stressing with an edge dripping in hurt.
Her mother slips on her right satin glove in a fluid motion. Regina’s hands shake, causing ripples in the teacup, causing tremors to be known and not simply felt. “He was a charming man, Regina, a very charming man,” she sighs as she brushes the lint from the furs draped along her body, “He was a poet and every woman likes a poet.”
As she retreats to the door, Emelia gives the apartment one last look through, scrutinizing everything without the single uttering of a complaint. “I think I did it because he loved me. Every pretty, young girl wants to be loved, Regina.”
And with that, Regina lets a tear slide down the left side of her face, it’s visible to her mother, but she doesn’t wipe it away with daft fingers. “I do love you, Regina. I still love you.”
The door closes shut and the apparent amount of love her mother had given her left her unsatisfied and lonelier than she could have ever fathomed.
She imagines Ilya there with his musky scent mixed with the slightest notes of that strong grain alcohol he tortured himself with. He’d had two shots of it every night since he was thirteen, or so he claimed, the navy had forced him to take a sabbatical. “His name is Ilya Volkov, he’s with the Russian Navy protecting the Baltic,” Regina proudly juts her chin up, only to meekly duck her head back into the reflection of her teacup. Her frizzy, impossible reflection only managed to stare back at her through the orange tinted nightmare without a solace.
“What is his rank, dear, this is what matters.”
Stirring her tea slightly, the clings of the cheap silver on the porcelain echoed throughout the poor acoustics of the concrete box in an utter, utter clarity. Regina’s stomach churned, whether with hunger or pure nervousness, she could not discern. Her mother’s pupils widened, a polite smile perched upon her quiet chin. “Private Ilya Volkov of the Russian Navy.”
“Of the Imperial Russian Navy, child, the Tsar is not dead yet.”
Regina bit her lip. She knew it would eventually come up during this visit. “You think that not having a tsar is a good thing? Think about this little apartment stuffed with four other people—that’s what this communism will do,” She angrily spits, the fear in her eyes causing them to widen, to expand with a knowing that if the Bolsheviks ceased power, their beautiful estate would fall in on itself. An enforced life of modesty would crash down upon the castle her mother had married into and leave it as smoldering ashes in the perfectly green grass. “You were born to a life of privilege, you’re not Regina Zhestakova, you’re Regina Saxony of Emelia Saxony hailing from Dorset, England, and you won’t forget it.”
“Why did you ever marry my father?” Regina retorts in an angry snide, the words and intonations stressing with an edge dripping in hurt.
Her mother slips on her right satin glove in a fluid motion. Regina’s hands shake, causing ripples in the teacup, causing tremors to be known and not simply felt. “He was a charming man, Regina, a very charming man,” she sighs as she brushes the lint from the furs draped along her body, “He was a poet and every woman likes a poet.”
As she retreats to the door, Emelia gives the apartment one last look through, scrutinizing everything without the single uttering of a complaint. “I think I did it because he loved me. Every pretty, young girl wants to be loved, Regina.”
And with that, Regina lets a tear slide down the left side of her face, it’s visible to her mother, but she doesn’t wipe it away with daft fingers. “I do love you, Regina. I still love you.”
The door closes shut and the apparent amount of love her mother had given her left her unsatisfied and lonelier than she could have ever fathomed.
♠ ♠ ♠
oi she really is the best character. Emelia rules.