The Firebird

I smiled myself, and pressed the button for the lift. ‘I have something better on offer,’ I told him, ‘than coffee.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The wind had an edge that was chilling my ears. It had ruffled the river’s wide surface and raised little waves that had splintered the afternoon sunlight’s reflection until the broad river was sparkling.

I unwrapped my ice lolly, watching while Rob chose his own from the freezer of the ice cream vendor’s little pavement stall beneath its small square awning. ‘You say this is a ritual of yours?’ he asked.

‘It is.’

I’d found this spot when I had done my term of study here, and it had quickly grown to be my favourite place in all St Petersburg. The ice cream, I’d decided, was a bonus.

St Petersburg had been constructed, not just on the mainland, but across a group of islands where the river here divided into several branches on its journey to the Gulf of Finland and the Baltic Sea. The main branch of the Neva River flowed between the south bank and the largest island in the delta. Rob and I were on that island – Vasilievsky Island – now, right at its furthest eastern point, known as the Strelka, or quite literally, the arrow, where a rounded spit of parkland speared the river and divided it, and offered an unequalled view of all the landmark buildings on the waterfront.

The traffic passed behind us in a steady blur, with brightly coloured coaches stopping in a constant rhythm, letting off a stream of tourists who were instantly besieged by men with strings of amber beads, and sets of little painted nesting dolls, and ‘real fur’ hats to sell as souvenirs.

Behind the row of coaches, just across the street, the Old Stock Exchange – now the Naval Museum – commanded attention from high on its flight of steps, white in the sun like an old Grecian temple, with columns along the full length of its portico. Framing the view from our side of the street were the two massive pillars of deep earthen red that were still lit as beacons on special occasions, and stood like great sentinels at either end of the half-circle park. We were standing just now at the base of one pillar.

Ordinarily, I’d have been sitting on one of the white-painted benches set all round the manicured lawn, where beds of lovely coral-red impatiens made a cheerful show against the green. But I was keen today to show Rob the whole view of the Embankment just across from us, to help him get his bearings before we began our proper search for Anna.

The wind struck even colder and I turned from it, and from the pillar, but instead of heading for a bench, I led Rob round onto the curving stone-paved path that rimmed the park, edged on its inside by a tidy row of trees that had been planted in behind the benches, and protected at its outer edge by a grey waist-height granite wall. From here we had a panoramic view of many older landmark buildings of St Petersburg, the south shore in particular, with its impressive line of what had once been princely residences and grand royal palaces, like long and gilded wedding cakes of pastel greens and yellows edged with white, their rows of windows catching sunlight as it danced across the river that was wider than the Thames.

Rob turned his collar up against the wind and took a bite of ice cream. ‘You might want to get a warmer sort of ritual. With cocoa, like.’

‘I thought you Scots were hardy.’

‘Hardy, hell. I’m from the Borders. St Petersburg would be at the same latitude as Thurso, on the northern tip of Scotland. It’s all Hielanmen up there, they like the cold.’

He didn’t fool me. With his face towards the water he looked perfectly contented and at ease, as I imagined all seafaring men would look with such a view. Ignoring the Embankment for a moment, he gave a nod towards the golden spire rising just across the river to our left, a narrow spike of brilliant splendour soaring from the shining gold-domed rooftop of a steeple, which in turn rose from a jumble of red rooftops in behind high bastioned walls. ‘And what would that be?’

‘That,’ I said, ‘is where the city of St Petersburg began: the Peter and Paul Fortress. You can’t really tell from this angle, but it’s on an island as well, just a little one.’ I knew this part of the history by heart. ‘After Peter the Great kicked the Swedes out of their fortress, further upriver, he came here and started to build his own. Legend has it he marked the spot with a cross of sod he cut himself, using the bayonet of one of his soldier’s muskets, and from what I know of Peter the Great I wouldn’t put it past him. He was a very hands-on sort of ruler.’

‘When was all this, then?’ asked Rob.

‘Well, they started the fortress in 1703, and about ten years later they started to build the cathedral, that one with the gold spire. Trezzini designed that,’ I said, ‘Domenico Trezzini, an architect brought here by Peter the Great. He designed some of the greatest buildings here, at that time – not only the fortress and cathedral, but the Twelve Colleges, here on this island, and the Summer Palace, over there,’ I said, directing Rob’s attention to the south bank of the river, further upstream. ‘You see where that big clump of trees is, beyond the bridge? Just there. It’s a beautiful place. Gorgeous gardens. It’s not a grand palace at all, really. Peter the Great wasn’t fond of extravagant homes. He liked comfort. He lowered the ceilings, supposedly, in his own houses, to make them more cosy.’

Rob let his gaze drift back down to the great Winter Palace – the Hermitage – splendid in sea green and white with gold trim, holding court on the south bank across from us like some majestic grand lady.