Daughters of the Night Sky(11)
“And it’s the same for Vanya and me,” I said, unable to keep all the annoyance from escaping the footlocker, where my head was buried. “None of this is against regulation.”
“Yet,” Taisiya pointed out. “We haven’t been allowed here long enough for them to write it down yet.”
There was something to be said for the simplicity of my wardrobe. I owned exactly one summer dress worth looking at, a simple thing that had been Mama’s. It was a lovely shade of turquoise blue that complemented my eyes, and it was in good repair, being too light to wear for more than two or three months out of the year. Taisiya looked as though she wanted to comment on my choice of dress. She knew it was the best I had, but to her credit she knew she’d already spoken her piece.
I threw on the dress, loosened my hair from its bun, and ran a comb through it to force the auburn waves to frame my face, hoping the countless hours trapped in pins didn’t give my hair the appearance of a dented tin can. All the while, as I exchanged my uniform for everyday wear—my finest at that—I could feel the eyes of my sisters in arms on my every movement. I could all but hear their thoughts: She’s fallen for him, and it’s going to cost her wings.
“I’m just sick of itchy uniforms,” I mumbled lamely. And tired of dressing like a man all the time.
Taisiya nodded; I knew everyone in the room had to understand. As much as we wanted to fly, denying our own womanhood most every hour of the day was exhausting. On a lark I grabbed the battered case with my papa’s old violin along with my thinnest wrap. As I exited the barracks to the world beyond, part of me felt compelled to turn around and spend the afternoon quizzing Taisiya and studying with the others, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn back.
Vanya greeted me at the exit to the barracks with a massive case in his left hand. He’d exchanged his uniform for a smart-looking suit of civilian clothes in a deep navy blue that complemented his complexion far better than the dismal greens and browns of military uniforms.
“Dear Lord, how long do you plan on keeping me out?” I said, pointing to the case. “I was expecting an afternoon off campus, not a two-week pleasure cruise.”
“You clearly aren’t entirely opposed to the idea. You brought a case of your own.”
“My papa’s violin. I haven’t played in ages, and since you told me we’d be going outside, I thought I’d bring it. The great outdoors is my favorite concert hall.”
“Perfect,” he said, offering me his arm and escorting me out into the vibrant late spring sun. I liked the feel of my arm in his but reminded myself it was no more of a gesture than he would offer his maiden aunt. “An exchange of talents it is.”
We walked for a half hour until we breached the perimeter of Chelyabinsk and found ourselves in a meadow surrounded by evergreens. Vanya placed the case on the damp grass and knelt before it. He removed a large woolen blanket crafted from soft ivory yarn, probably hand knit by his mother to while away some of the long winter hours in years past. With a flourish he spread the blanket out as a barrier against the soggy ground. He gave no thought to how the pale fibers would come clean; it would never have occurred to him.
“Sit,” he ordered. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He took off his suit jacket, placed it on the blanket opposite me, and turned his attentions to his case a few feet away from where I sat in the center of the meadow. He removed a wooden frame that he quickly unfolded and assembled into an easel, and placed a blank canvas on its waiting ledge. “The light is spectacular,” he explained as he mixed colors from tubes on his palette. “I’ve always wanted to paint here.”
“But why bring me?” I asked. “I’d much rather see the finished product than watch you paint. The trees are beautiful, though. It’ll be a gorgeous picture, I’m sure.”
“I didn’t come to paint the trees, goose. Now angle your head slightly to the left,” he said, gesturing with his brush. “Just like that. Try to stay as still as you can.”
“Me?” I squeaked. Iron-coated butterflies buzzed around my stomach. I suddenly felt as though my dress were too sheer, as though too many eyes lingered on me, though it was only Vanya. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to look in his direction.
“Yes, you, Katya. Consider this an exercise in trusting your pilot. Please put your arms back down the way they were, and look at me. I’ll endeavor to do you justice.”
I forced my breath to slow and placed my arms back by my sides. I cast my eyes to him, and did my best to relax as he painted. He wanted me to know him, and this was his way of baring his soul. I fought the urge to wrap the blanket around me, to protect myself from the intimacy of his gaze.
If I could place my life in his hands every afternoon, this ought to be simple enough. The longer he worked, the more I felt myself at ease. His brow did not furrow with concentration as he painted, as it did when he prepared for takeoff. His shoulders were low, his breathing even, as his brush—an extension of his arm—swept over the canvas with measured strokes. Never before had I seen an artist at work, but I had not expected it to appear so graceful. He looked more like a dancer than a painter. I found the sight of him entranced by his palette and canvas both mesmerizing and soothing.
Vanya worked in silence for over an hour, but I was so transfixed and he worked so intently that the time swept past.