Chapter Text
The bite of the wind in Siberia really isn’t something Violet could have prepared for in any capacity. Yes, it’s got a reputation for being freezing cold, but words don’t come close to the bone deep chill in the air, even when she’s bunkered down in the back of a car under two heavy sweaters. The window is open a crack. Her shudder goes unnoticed.
Her gloves render her useless, can’t open the vinyl folder full of papers when it tries to slip from her grasp every other second. Her brain’s too fuzzed from travelling to take anything in, anyway. It gives her a chance to look out of the window at white on white.
The chauffer is mercifully quiet, too occupied with navigating the twisty mountain road to bother with chatting about her destination. It’s much better than Italy was last month, where she was cursed with the world’s most talkative driver for over two weeks. Russia is by no means serene, but the people know when to let the air settle.
She checks her scrap of note paper again, full to the brim with instructions should she need it. Not that she can really navigate Cyrillic, but she can at least offer the paper to her driver. She can’t see herself leaving the lodge much more than a few walks, so she’ll be able to tuck her directions into her leather bag and forget about them for a while.
According to the opposite side of her paper, she’ll be staying with Katya for the duration of the month, with a last name that is daunting to think of. Katya Z. Raja mentioned she’s nice, very warming. Her little bed and breakfast is fully booked for the foreseeable future, but they’ve pulled a few favours, forked out some extra cash.
If it wasn’t for the last minute drop out, she would’ve been designing in the less than ideal home of Vaska, in the heart of Moscow. Not that there’s anything wrong with Moscow, but Violet’s been craving the quiet of a more subdued area, just this once.
The car pulls to a slow stop outside a blanketed building, she clicks her seatbelt undone and clicks her back. “Thank you so much,” she says as she hands over a fistful of rubles, glancing between her directions and the snow-capped sign beside the wooden stairs. Красный бархат Гостевой дом, in patiently painted letters, then in Aquaria’s shakily copied scrawl. Home for a while.
She collects her bags from the trunk once she’s slipped her instructions away in the pocket of her thick wool coat, slinging two bags over her shoulders and rolling the other two cases behind her, thunking up the steps in protest. She drops one to knock, pulling her knit hat further over her ears. Her watch is too deep under layers of sleeve to gauge the time, but it’s getting dusky.
There’s a shadow behind the glass in the door, moving quick, like a minnow. The doorknob twists, a wall of warmth seeps out from beyond the threshold. And there, red cheeked and wide eyed, stands Katya. Her hair is long and straw coloured, in two long braids that pass over her shoulders from beneath her furry hat. Violet’s greeting gets lost in a puff of air.
“Oh, you must be frozen,” Katya tuts, taking Violet’s bags from her and eyeing over the cases. “You pulled those up yourself? You should call me! What am I here for?”
She’s tiny, like a little doll under layers of shawls and skirts and sweaters, but she handles Violet’s belongings like they weigh nothing. Her black mittens are on the wrong hands, rendering her thumbs mostly useless, but it doesn’t stop her from flitting back to tackle Violet’s big case. “It’s alright, I’ve got them. Thank you,” Violet says as she pulls one up and over the lip in the door, then the other. “I’m Violet, Raja’s friend. You must be-”
“Katya, so good to meet you! Did you travel well?” Katya fusses, pushing the door closed with both hands and pulling her mittens off. Her hands are pink. Her accent makes Violet’s nose tight at the bridge, unlike anyone else she’s spoken to in her handful of hours in Russia. She clears her throat, pulling at her own gloves until they slide off.
“Yeah, everything’s been smooth. This place is so sweet, you’ve done a beautiful job,” Violet smiles, taking the time to appreciate the roaring fire in the hearth, the sweet carved figurines placed neatly along the mantle. She touches over a neat wooden bear, glancing up at the cuckoo clock above her. It’s almost nine. She has no idea how that translates to Atlanta hours, but she doesn’t feel very tired. “Oh, god. I said I’d be here earlier, didn’t I? There was a mix up with transport, I’m sorry if you’ve had to wait.”
“No worrying, things happen. You are here now! Come, your room will be warmed for you by now,” Katya beams, pulling her cossack hat off and setting it behind the little mahogany desk. She picks one bag up, eyeing the hard bodied case at Violet’s feet. “Can I help with your things, please?”
Violet laughs softly, nodding and grabbing the rest of her things, following Katya’s lead through the hallway. The walls are full to the brim, red and gold wallpaper mostly hidden beneath framed paintings and posters and embroidery hoops. There’s a picture of a handsome little group of dogs, all piled on top of each other, presumably their names looped beneath them. This feels more like a home than a business.
Katya produces a key from one of her many pockets, clicking the door open and motioning for Violet to head in first. “There are more blankets in the cupboards, if you would like them. I never know how many is too many,” she says softly, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. She seems tired, no matter how sweet her tone is. Violet’s probably kept her up waiting for her arrival.
“Oh, wow,” Violet gasps quietly, setting her baggage down and taking the rest from Katya’s cold hands, keeping them flush with the oak panelled walls. The room is small, but cosy beyond what she’d imagined, full to the brim with colour. A small desk sits on birch logs in the corner beside a door to a balcony, half full of books and writing supplies. The walls, again, are crammed with life; squares of fabric sewn into pockets, strips of brightly coloured cloth bundled together, little quilted pillows, all strung together with ribbon and hung neatly around the room.
The bed is piled full of warmth, blankets and throws and a mountain of plump, silk pillows, right next to a little radiator. There’s a worn emerald armchair in the furthest corner, equally full of furs and comfort. Even the carpet beneath her boots is fluffy and inviting. No wonder Raja spoke so highly of Katya’s little corner of the country.
“This is beautiful, Katya. Thank you for letting me stay here, this will be perfect,” she breathes, pushing her coat off her shoulders and resting it over her suitcase, not ready to break the flow of the room just yet. Katya beams, squeezing her shoulder and knocking twice on the radiator to make sure it’s warm. “Is there anything I need to do? Checking in, stuff like that?”
“Oh, leave that for the morning. You’ve been travelling! Let me make you tea, warm you up for a good night’s rest,” she insists, offering the room key to Violet before stepping back. She’s in just a pair of socks, making little sound in comparison to the quiet creak of protest against Violet’s boots. She’ll chalk it up to the house being more familiar with Katya. “Do you have preferences? Milk, cream, sugar?”
“You don’t have to do that for me,” Violet says as she eases her boots off, smiling when Katya squints at her in disapproval. “I’ll take it however, but I like milk. Will you be joining me?”
“I will. Get yourself settled, get off your feet. I’ll be back in a moment,” Katya assures her, shooing her in the direction of the armchair and exiting in a fluid motion. Violet does as she’s been told, taking a moment to stroke over the thick fur strewn over the back of the chair before collapsing in it, rubbing her socked feet against the thick rug to warm up some more.
She wrestles her coat off, along with one of her three sweaters. For someone who’s walking around in enough layers to dress a small family, Katya keeps her home toasty warm. It feels vastly safe, sitting and looking around, taking it all in. There’s a nightstand beside the bed, with a small lamp and a curly-corded landline sitting beside each other. She’ll call Raja in the morning, or the afternoon. No point in it now, not when she used the payphone outside the airport to listen to a minute of dialling.
It’s easy enough to drift off to the quiet thrum of Katya’s home, the steady tink, tink, tink of a teaspoon in the other room just distant enough to not be the usual headache. Violet sinks further into the armchair, turning to rest her face against the soft throw. She could fall asleep like this, in the dim orange glow from the little ceiling lamps, fully clothed and half made up.
“Would you like cake?” Katya’s hushed voice comes from the door, pulling Violet from her lazy pool of thoughts. Regardless of her answer, cake sits in the centre of the tray she’s setting on the desk, deep crimson with dazzling white cream through the centre. “You should eat. Rather than drinking tea on an empty stomach. Have you eaten much today?”
Katya’s been pushing a knife through the cake through her talking, easing the slice onto a plate and setting it on the side table with a fork, crossing the room again to pick up a large mug of tea and pressing it between Violet’s palms. “Thank you, again. I ate a good breakfast, but that’s about it,” she says after taking a sip, sighing in contempt. It’s good, warming to the core. “This is perfect. Does everyone get this welcome, or am I lucky?”
“Well, I can’t give away that kind of secret,” Katya hums, settling into the chair at the desk and huffing as she leans back into it. She adds a teaspoon of sugar to her own cup, stirring a few times with her chin resting in her palm. “My good reputation will be hurting. Tell me about you! Raja has spoken well of you!”
Violet chances a corner of cake, piercing more with her fork as she swallows. It’s good, better than Kim’s birthday cake that is still a topic of conversation on slow work days. “Oh god, I’m not as interesting as I sound. Too busy working,” she hums, leaning back and watching Katya piling two teaspoons of sugar into her tea, averts her gaze at three. “I do a lot of travelling for Gemini, mainly. And I work with Fabricate on articles about the things I do. It’s like, really not that interesting.”
Katya sets her teaspoon down (after at least another spoonful and a lot more stirring), waving her hand as she takes a long drink. “No! That is interesting! Travels are good, important for rounding. A well-travelled woman is one to listen to,” she insists, setting the lid on her pot of sugar. Violet smiles, glad of the affirmation. “Have you been to Russia before? Plenty of character.”
“This is my first time, actually,” Violet confesses, curling a leg to rest her left foot under her. She delights in how Katya wiggles her thick blonde brows at the news. “I just felt like Siberia is really overlooked. Everyone who comes to Russia goes to Moscow, you know? And no one’s talking about the good right now. So why not?”
The lists of why’s and why not’s are tucked at the bottom of her desk at home. In truth, the why not’s kind of outweighed, but Violet had already started pleading her case to Raja before she admitted to herself that ‘The Cold War’ is a pretty big point against her exploration of Soviet fashion. Enough to be put on the list three more times. Not only is the relationship between America and Russia stale, but allegedly the fashion is, too.
Thank god she’s in the one corner of the country with a fashionable woman. She’ll have to whip her Polaroid out, if Katya’s wardrobe is as delicious as Raja has promised. She hopes to see the much discussed ivory mink coat, if she still has it.
The teapot is emptied through their talking, replaced with vodka that Katya insists is a necessity. She’s lucky, she insists, that she has a business that hasn’t been hurt, that she’s had money tucked away from family to keep her from fretting too much. “People find me as a gate, yes?” she hums, moved to sit at the edge of the bed upon her return. Violet’s joined her, sprawled over the cushions and basking in the close comfort of the room. “Like you, people like you. Not usual for winter, though. I am glad for the company.”
“Do you get many Americans?” Violet asks, holding her glass out for Katya to top her up again. It’s smooth, warming. Nothing like the paint stripping qualities of vodkas she’s tried at home. Katya’s hands shake as she pours more for herself. “I’m sure the place would be crawling if they knew about you back home. You’re the first Russian woman I’ve really met.”
Katya laughs sharply, smacking Violet’s calf and sipping from her glass. Her lids are heavy, charcoaled. She blinks slow and lazy. Violet feels bad for keeping her awake for so long. “I have been told I am good introducing. Like a, uh… oh, Raja said it so well,” she grunts, waving her hand around for inspiration. “Oh, I don’t know. Whatever. I am nice for Americans.”
“Palatable?” Violet offers, smiling as Katya mulls it over. “I’d consider you palatable. I love what you’re wearing. Where did you get that skirt?”
“I made it!” Katya beams, screwing the lid on the bottle in her hand once she’s drained it. Her cheeks are full of colour, her nose flushed pink. Violet moves forward, running a hand over the thick burgundy wool. “I make most of my clothes. Idle hands, yes? Good to be busy.”
“You’re very talented,” Violet says softly, touching over the little black tassels at the edge of her shawl, the warm brushed cotton of the garment. The silver rosary around her neck glints when she moves. “Where do you get the fabrics? I’d love to make a piece with something from here.”
Katya gazes over her slowly, pulling her plush bottom lip between her starlight teeth. She sways, just a little, leaning her shoulder against the wall. “Guests. People who like me, nice people. Heartful. Fabric is good gift. I have many good gifts. People are so kind,” she says softly, resting her ice cold hand over Violet’s own wandering one. “There is good here. I know you will find it. I find fabric for you, plenty is waiting for pattern. What are you making?”
Violet turns her hand over, holding Katya’s hand in hers and squeezing lightly. “I’m not sure yet. I wanna take my time thinking about it. Take in the sights,” she decides, running her thumb over Katya’s pink knuckles. “I’ll wait to see more of your wardrobe. Raja says it’s a wonder.”
Katya laughs, setting the bottle down in favour of grasping Violet’s hand in both of her own. She’s going to give Katya a good pair of gloves before she leaves. She’s got some wool lined leather ones in one of her cases, she’ll make a point of wrapping them.
“Raja is too generous! I will show you around tomorrow, but you rest now. I keep you past midnight, look! Criminal!” Katya shakes her head, lifting Violet’s hand to kiss over her knuckles. “You sleep well, I make breakfast from seven. Oh! You call if you need anything!”
She slides off the bed, catching the glass between her hand and the mattress when it rolls off behind her. She scolds it in her mother tongue, setting it on the nightstand and straightening the landline, peering over the cream buttons. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s so cosy,” Violet tries to assure her, but still Katya grabs a pen and paper from the desk, looping out numbers.
“One three one, that is me,” Katya signs her name as she finishes, her pronunciation closer to ‘wan tree wan’. It’s sweet. She’s great at English, Violet wasn’t expecting half a sentence, really. “Call for anything. I am here. If I do not, I will be in kitchen or bed. Kitchen is over the hall, bed is-…”
Katya starts mapping things out in the air, her brows furrow as she tries to mentally navigate her own home. “I’ll sleep like a log, but thank you so much. I’ll call if I do need anything,” Violet promises, which seems to put Katya’s directional woes to bed. “You sleep. Go, take care,” she smiles, taking Katya’s hand from the air and kissing it.
“Goodnight, Miss Violet. I’ll call you for breakfast,”
“Goodnight, Katya. Thank you.”
Katya leaves after a few moments of serene quiet, their hands parted by the space. She clicks the lights out once Violet’s got the one on the nightstand figured out, closing the heavy door without much of a struggle.
Violet takes the forgotten bottle of vodka and sets it on the desk, two empty glasses joining it shortly after. She considers sleeping in her current attire, peeling her suitcase open when she really weighs it up. Her pair of thick flannel pyjamas wait for her, close and warm when she changes into them, though not too hot that she can’t make the most of Katya’s offerings.
Crawling under the blankets leaves her with a sense of safety, akin to how her Aunt Fran dressed the spare bed in goose down duvets and heavy throws. It’s like her own little nest. She clicks the light out, settling her face against the plumped pillows and holding one in her arms to drift off.