Together in Paris

10.

Eleven days.

He had been running around Paris for eleven days, and still there was no trace of the Neva Club. It wasn't near the Champs Elyseés, it wasn't even close to the Eiffel Tower or the Notre-Dame Cathedral, not to the Moulin Rouge, not to the Arch of Triumph and not even to the Opéra Garnier, and the more he ventured into the less crowded neighborhoods, the more he felt powerless into that gigantic city. He didn't speak French, so he couldn't ask for any help, and the Latin alphabet was difficult to decipher in the eyes of an accostumed to the Cyrillic one Russian like him; he probably had passed right next to the Club and hadn't even notice it. The only letters he could recognize were A, E, and O, and some consonants like C, T, B, H and P, but it was clear they hadn't the same functions they had in Russian, so it was complicated for him to at least try to read what the sign said here and there around the streets of the city.

Not that he would have understood the meaning, anyway.

As if it weren't enough, he had also gotten lost more than once and he had luckily managed to return to his hotel with difficulty, desperately looking for something familiar to find his way.
Why on Earth had he left Russia? Why had he followed those misfits to France? It had been the most stupid thing he had done in his whole life!

Kind of.

He would never have found them in that chaos ...

He leaned wearily against the door of his room, so exhausted to not even have the strength to pull the key out of his pocket. He had been out that night too, out into the crowded and glittering streets of Paris looking for that damned club, and the only thing he had come to know in all of his searching was the arrival of a train from Constantinople.
Not that that interested him, though.
After all, Dmitry and Popov would have arrived on foot. Saddened by these new failures, he had spent most of the night in the only place he had found which made him feel comfortable in that chaotic mess: the Alexander III Bridge. It was dedicated to the father of the former Tsar Nikolaj II, Alexander III, and it also was the only monument with a sign written in Russian. That was probably why he felt home on that bridge, yet halfway between something he had always known and something he was not sure he wanted to learn.

The Alexander III Bridge was a beautiful place.
From there, he had been able to see other bridges on the Seine river, lots of lights and of boats heading in and out the city ... he almost had had the feeling of being back in Russia. It had reminded him of his beloved St. Peters- no, it was Leningrad, now -- and he had almost believed to hear a voice -- her voice -- singing into the dark of the night. He had turned several times looking for her, but no one had been there, except for strangers staring just as if he were mad.
He probably was, by now.
He had then left the bridge, walking away on the right bank.

He brought a hand to his forehead, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, a heavy sigh escaped his lips. His feelings were so messed up he couldn't find a way to stop the silver storm inside him.
He loved Russia, and yet couldn't stop liking the happy confusion Paris was.
He loved his government's ideas, yet he couldn't help but love the sight the bridge dedicated to a Tsar offered.
He couldn't believe Anya had been so gladly led astray, yet he couldn't help but understand her. He wanted to hate her, but he couldn't stop ... wanting to see her.
He didn't know what he would have given to see her at least once more, or how much he would have paid to talk to her again.

If only he could have had the courage, back in Leningrad, to tell her that ...

He snorted loudly at the thought, slipped a hand into the pocket of the new coat he had bought to better disguise himself, took out the shining key of his room, put it into the lock and ... stared. His hands were shaking with nervousness, his eyes burned. Could really the only thought of her shake him like that? She had distracted him from his duties, she had captured and circuited him quickly and brought him there to Paris, making him move and wag his tail like a loyal dog ... he was an idiot. A complete, terrible, idiotic idiot. What had gotten into him? He should never have followed her! She was just making him weak and vulnerable, she was ... not doing anything he was trying to blame her for.