Regina Saxony

“Come, Mrs. Volkova, sit. May I take your jacket?” The server asks politely, the table set and the strong scent of the grain alcohol from the other side of the table tickling her nostrils in a violent contortion. Wild flowers adorn a cut crystal vase in the center of the table. Regina sits and the man scoots the chair in for her.

“Thank you, sir. Do you know when Mr. Ivchenko will arrive?” She politely fold her hands on the top of the table.

The waiter smiles, he’s obviously of a Western decent, his tanned skin differing from the beige shirt he flaunts greatly. “Mr. Ivchenko and Mr. Stalin will join you in a few moments, they are a little late.”

Regina’s heart skips a beat in anxiety, “Mr. Stalin is dining with us?”

“Yes, he is on the guest list, Mrs. Volkova. May I get you something to drink?”

“A shot of vodka and a glass of cognac please,” Regina purses her lips as her fingers instinctively caress her temples. Ilya promised her it would only be Ivchenko, he promised her as they argued in hushed whispers in the loft of the Dacha Mr. Ivchenko owned this morning. Preceding this, Ilya promised her this meeting in the countryside would be rudimentary, barely any politics and mingling.

Regina should have known better. Everything is politics.

The waiter wriggles his eyebrows in a pitiable concern that waiters have to feign. Slumping in her seat, Regina attains a sort of anger that makes her wicked, something that makes her yearn for the other paths she could have meandered upon.

As soon as the waiter deliver the alcohol, the men arrive—freshly groomed and precisely poignant they are in their stride, a certain confidence (and arrogance) defines them as they seat themselves across from Regina. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Volkova.” Stalin recites before sitting next to her in some uncomfortable vicinity.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Volkova,” Mr. Ivchenko follows in his grandiose mannerisms. A charming one, he is.

Regina purses her lips, the hurt evident in her eyes as her fingers toy with the shot. With one breath in her aching lungs, she drowns the vodka, which burns like all sorts of hell as she exhales. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she smiles, her inhibitions somewhat lowered, but not so much to render her unaware and not about her piercing wits. Mr. Ivchenko chuckles as he sits across from her.

“You are ravishing as ever,” Ivchenko compliments.

“Indeed,” the steely man next to her agrees.

The waiter returns, but is dismissed by the flip of Ivchenko’s impatient hand. “The sailboat was a stunning addition to the gathering yesterday evening, I must send my regards to Mr. Andrushov...” Regina fuels the altercation with petty flattery.

“I’m surprised you are about yourself today, madam,” Ivchenko chortles.

“I do not drink to a stupor, mind you.”

“I was not implying that.”

Regina nods, smoothing the napkin in her lap as she take a sip of the rich cognac. This time, when the waiter approaches, she takes an order before he can be dismissed. If she is forced to talk politics, she will get her money out of it, and a delicious meal.

As the men order, she feels eyes on her, the restaurant silent as the only sound to fill the space being the breeze coming in from the open windows. It’s an eerie feeling, the warm summer breeze only sticking to her like honey to the skin. She could find it soothing if it wasn’t for her company. “I recommend the cognac,” Regina quips, trying to buffer the nothingness filling her ears.

“I am not interested in such a luxury,” Stalin replies to the gentle conversation in a brash manner.

“Where do you draw the line between luxury and Bolshevik?” She speedily retorts, “Vodka is Bolshevik, local wine is Bolshevik, Medovukha is Bolshevik, but cognac? Cognac is a luxury?”

Stalin frowns, staring to Mr. Ivchenko. “I think you have spent too much time in the sun or you have had too much to drink, but you’re still charming company, Mrs. Volkova,” Ivchenko rattles, boring Regina the second he opened his mouth.

“There’s nothing wrong with my questions, I am of the right mind. If I were a man, you’d probably answer them,” Regina counters, dangling the flute delicately in her hand.

Ivchenko laughs. Stalin broods. Regina continues to be indifferent as she waits for the food. Her sharp tongue still lingering in the air, seemingly turning sour as if it was milk in the warm atmosphere. Everything is pressure, the confines of social conquest compressing her wills and patience to a fine fiber. What a stagnant, tension filled conversation without words it was! How so much was said in the silence. “It is not a matter of male or female, as trivial questions know of no gender,” Stalin cracks his knuckles, after finishing his sentence, he drowns the shot that was sitting here all of this time and was most likely room temperature by now. Regina is tempted to order another glass as she watches the man emotionlessly gulp the bitter brilliance.

“And the luxuries of life should know of no limitations. To quote Marie Antoinette, ‘Let them eat cake,’” Regina smiles warmly, Ivchenko bellowing with laughter as Stalin manages a dry chuckle, she continues, “Though, I do prefer bread to cake, bread is more practical, more filling. Cake is good though too. I like it. I wouldn’t want to do without it.”

“You see, cognac is like cake. I’m not not a Bolshevik for eating the cake or drinking the cognac, I’m simply living life and accepting the indulgences it bears once and a while. As a starving beggar would you refuse cake because it is not practical in the likes of bread…”

“You are a convincing, witty woman, Mrs. Volkova,” Stalin interrupts her speech, “But you are not fooling me and you fail to interest me.”

Regina tucks her head down in some sort of primal shame. Her opulent gowns, her artistic nature, her natural inclination to be free was not suppressed by Ilya’s literature or her frivolous, political babble she feigned. While she wasn’t for tsarist rule, she wasn’t for the Bolsheviks, she was stuck in the dangerous, wrenching middle. Torn. “That’s why we are here, Mrs. Volkova, we have a deal for you,” Ivchenko interjects.

“Hmm?”

“I am proposing that you and Ilya leave the country,” Ivchenko furrows his brow.

“No.”

“Times are changing, Mrs. Volkova, purse your lips and frown all you want, but there’s a new way of life that you do not fit into,” Mr. Ivchenko urges, his face almost genuine.

Stalin places his hand over hers on her lap, a gesture she finds to personal, but is too shocked to resist, “And to think, I just wanted to kill you. Ivchenko has a better idea and you and Ilya get to be happy and rich and live happily ever after,” Stalin taunts her. Almost as if he’s looking for a reason to kill her.

Regina can’t say anything, the lump in her throat pushing her beyond her capacity, far beyond what her sharp, spitfire tongue can retort coherently. As a minute passes, Stalin redirects his hand to her face. Cupping her cheek, he speaks softly, “My father used to hit my mother—she was a pretty thing like you. Used to slap her and turn her neck right around. You convinced everyone so well, it makes me wonder, does he…”

Shaking, Regina moves the weathered, calloused hand from her cheeks with her clammy fingers. Breathily, she hushes, “Ilya has never hit me, he has never hurt me, and the fact you suggest so is vile.”

“Comrade Stalin, that is not necessary,” Mr. Ivchenko warns, placing a suitcase on the table, discarding his food to the empty space beside him. The table cloth crinkles with the contrasting leather being placed atop of it. Regina is sweating, her face glistening in an unattractive sheen. Eyes stinging, it’s a bitter afternoon, the acidity of blood filling her lips replacing that youthful honey they tasted of.

She didn’t want to make these decisions. These were big decisions. “It’s a different language no matter where I go…”

“You’re a smart woman. Ilya is a socialite at heart,” Ivchenko reassures, “I was thinking England, France, Italy…”

“Sweden, Norway, Netherlands… Anywhere dearest Regina. Do you have a fancy for any of these?” Stalin furrows his eyebrows.

Regina massages her temples, trying to prevent herself from crying, from showing her hysterical insides. “Th—Th—This is my home. This is the place I was born,” She lets tears fall, Stalin giving her a handkerchief she doesn’t refuse. It’s made of an abrasive muslin, a cheaper material than the tablecloth. It was functional, nonetheless.

Ivchenko bows his head in some kind of forced shame that didn’t look all that forced. Stalin lays a strong hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, silly child, home is not where you are born.”