Chapter Three
Anna had only seen pictures of the house in Sleepy Hollow, and they did not do the home justice. She followed Ivan through it as he showed her the bedroom he thought she would enjoy staying in and then the master bedroom where he would stay. While the house belonged to his parents, they were never there. Instead, they spent their time traveling around the world or toodling across the United States in their RV. Their “mobile home away from home,” as Ivan called it. He had commandeered the master bedroom as soon as they took off in the RV the very first time five years earlier and never gave it up. They didn’t mind.
“So if you need to work on any lesson plans, you’re more than welcome to share my office,” he offered, showing her the third bedroom in the house. It was set up with two back-to-back desks with extra monitors and plenty of desk space to work. “I know I haven’t finished mine yet, and the morning sun makes this room warm and enjoyable.”
Anna looked at the room and felt a pang of jealousy. Her one-bedroom apartment was barely big enough for a dining room table, let alone a dedicated office. “I will be taking you up on that,” she stated. She looked at the connection for the extra monitor and smiled. “I’m going to get spoiled like this. I don’t have an office at home, and you know I share the one at the university with two other professors.” She glanced sideways at him. “Unlike you, who has an office all to yourself.”
“You’re more than welcome to share mine. I’ve told you that before,” Ivan pointed with a wave of his slender hand. He leaned in the doorway of the room, arms crossed, and simply watched her as she examined the books on the shelf and the movie posters on the wall. He loved old movies, and even though the posters were reprinted, they made him happy.
“Errol Flynn’s The Adventures of Robin Hood . I love that movie,“ Anna stated. “And The King and I .“ She pointed to the poster with Yul Brynner. “My mom named me after her.”
“Anna in the movie?” He smiled. “And you’re a teacher, so that is quite fitting, dushenka .“ He tucked his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Did you know that he was born in Vladivostok?” He walked over to where Anna was standing, looking at the poster. “He had Buryat blood…Mongol blood. Did you know that?”
Anna shook her head. “No. I always wondered, though, because he looked so natural playing King Mongkut. I would’ve loved to see him play that part live on stage,” she replied. Together, they left the room and headed downstairs.
“Agreed. But we will have to be happy with the movie instead, which I own.” He walked across the hardwood floor, through the open-concept living room, and towards the kitchen. “We should watch it one night.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of red wine. He waited until she sat at the bar across from him before pouring her a glass. “Dinner will be ready in a few. I hope you don’t mind that I cooked.”
Anna took the glass he handed her. “I don’t mind at all. You know I love your cooking.” She took the wine glass and wandered into the living room. The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, its light casting long shadows across the bookshelves that were filled from floor to ceiling with books. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and ink, mingling with the aroma of Russian Meatball Soup. “When did you have time to make the soup?” she asked, her eyes wandering along the spines of the books on the shelves.
Ivan shrugged. “I started it this morning and pretty much had it ready before I came to pick you up. I’m mostly warming it up and adding the final touches.” The living room, with its soft leather sofa and armchair, was a fitting atmosphere for the evening he had planned. He saw Anna sit in the leather armchair, her eyes still wandering over the spines of the books surrounding her, each one a promise of untold stories. He walked over to the bookshelf, wine glass in hand, and let the fingers of his free hand trail over the titles as if choosing the perfect book was a delicate art. He didn’t want to start their exploration of Russian romantic literature with something that would chase her away. He paused before pulling out a slender volume, its cover worn and faded. The name embossed on the cover was still clear: Alexander Pushkin. “I think this is a good place to start,” Ivan said, his voice low, almost a whisper. He walked over to Anna, holding the book out to her. She took it, feeling the weight of history and passion in her hands.
“Pushkin,” Anna murmured, her fingers brushing over the cover. “His words are... intoxicating.”
“Yes,” Ivan agreed, his eyes darkening with something unspoken. He sipped his wine and motioned to the book with the hand holding the glass, “Pushkin understood the depths of desire, the hunger beneath the surface of civility. Let me show you.” He took the book back from her, opening it to a page he had already marked. Clearing his throat, he began to read, his voice rich and velvety, each word laced with seduction.
“ I recollect that wonderous meeting. That instant, I encountered you. When, like an apparition fleeting, Like beauty’s spirit, past you flew.
Long since, when hopeless grief distressed me, When noise and turmoil vexed, it seemed Your voice still tenderly caressed me, Your dear face sought me as I dreamed.”
Ivan’s eyes flicked up to meet Anna’s as he continued, his voice dropping even lower as though he were sharing a secret. He settled on the coffee table in front of her, setting his glass of wine aside and laying his now free hand on her knee.
“Years passed; their stormy gusts confounded And swept away old dreams apace. I had forgotten how you sounded, Forgot the heaven of your face.
In exiled gloom and isolation My quiet days meandered on, The thrill of awe and inspiration, And life, and tears, and love, were gone.
My soul awoke from inanition, And I encountered you anew, And like a fleeting apparition, Like beauty’s spirit, past you flew.”
Anna felt a shiver run down her spine, the words seeping into her, awakening something deep and primal. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from Ivan, his hazel eyes burning into hers as he read. His voice was rich and seductive, and if this was how he read passages in his class, it was no wonder he had male and female students scrambling to take his class. However, she had a sneaky suspicion that this was all for her and her alone. She took a sip of her wine, letting it linger on her tongue for a moment as she stared at him.
Ivan stood up and walked around the back of the chair. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered the final lines.
“My pulses bound in exultation, And in my heart once more unfold The sense of awe and inspiration, The life, the tears, the love of old.”
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken desires. Anna’s breath hitched as she felt the intensity of the moment, the line between literature and reality blurring. She couldn’t move as she let the implications of the poem sink in. She could feel his breath warm on her cheek until he finally moved. She slowly turned to look at him. Was this how he felt about her?
“Pushkin wrote of love,” Ivan said softly, closing the book and standing up, “but he also understood the power of desire, the way it can consume us if we let it.” He returned the thin book to its place on the bookshelf before walking into the kitchen and stirring the pot of soup.
Anna’s pulse quickened, her thoughts a whirlwind of emotions she had long kept hidden. She followed him, grabbing the bottle of wine and refilling her glass. “And what if we do let it?” she asked, her voice barely audible. There were butterflies in her stomach, and she had never heard a poem more beautiful or more seductive than the one he had just read to her.
Ivan’s hand reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then we explore it together, dushenka ,“ he replied, his eyes never leaving hers. “Through Pushkin, and others like him, we can give in to those desires, in the safety of words... or perhaps, beyond them.” He cupped her cheek for a moment, his palm wam, before picking up the ladle and dishing out their soup.
Anna nodded, the decision already made in her mind. The poem was only the beginning, a gateway to something much deeper, much more intimate. And with Ivan as her guide, she was ready to explore it all.