Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 2. Erotic Saga

Petrov’s eyes narrowed fractionally, not with suspicion, but with a subtle insistence that the truth be evident through the manner, not the statement alone. «Am I to understand,» he asked, «that you wish these modifications for reasons social, or… personal?»

Yarosvet’s gaze met the other man’s steadily, unflinching. «I am… engaged, in a manner of speaking, to a young lady whose family might — if guided solely by the ledger — consider me advanced in years. I prefer, naturally, that the records convey a certain… suitability. Nothing more than propriety, nothing that would invite undue scrutiny.»

Petrov’s hands rested lightly on the desk, the fingers laced in thought. «And you are, of course, aware that such amendments cannot be made lightly,» he said. His tone carried the weight of experience, tempered with caution, the subtle authority of someone accustomed to judging both request and requester. «One must be certain of the veracity of the applicant, the genuineness of their identity. There are… precedents, regrettably, of those who sought change under less than forthright pretenses.»

He gave a slight nod to show his acceptance, his composure steady. «I am prepared to verify any detail, Mr. Petrov. My identity is open to such scrutiny as you deem necessary. I would not ask for confidence without offering its assurance.»

Petrov leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes tracing the contours of Yarosvet’s face as if measuring the claim against the subtle evidence of gesture, posture, and expression. «And the alterations you seek — cosmetic, and chronological — are not intended for concealment of misdeeds, or for evasion of responsibilities?» he asked, his voice gentle but probing. «Merely to reconcile public perception with present reality?»

«Exactly,» Yarosvet said, the words deliberate, precise. «Nothing more. I am not evading law or duty. Only… seeking congruity between appearance and record.»

For a long moment, Petrov allowed silence to settle, his gaze never leaving Yarosvet. Then, slowly, he nodded. «Very well,» he said. «I believe I understand your position, and I believe it… reasonable, given the circumstances you describe. There are procedures, of course, and delicacies to be observed. But I can assist you. Provided we proceed with the proper care, and that all matters remain… discreet.»

Yarosvet inclined his head, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh of relief passing through him. «I would be grateful,» he said simply, allowing the weight of centuries of careful observation and caution to ease for a moment in the presence of someone who appeared to understand the quiet precision of his predicament.

Petrov’s hands resumed their rest upon the ledger, yet now with a subtle shift, as if acknowledging a shared understanding. «Then we shall proceed,» he said, voice calm, steady, measured. «Step by step, and with care. You will need only to provide the particulars, and we shall reconcile them with the record. Nothing rushed, nothing exposed. The matter will be handled… with discretion.»

Yarosvet allowed a subtle glance at the neat pile of ledgers and official books on Petrov’s desk, the very sight a quiet reminder of the machinery behind every change of record. «I trust you understand,» he said, his tone measured, «that such a request cannot be without consequence — both in terms of cost and the necessary patience. I am prepared to offer what is required, though I prefer clarity from the outset.»

Petrov’s eyes flickered briefly over the top of his spectacles, a signal of comprehension rather than surprise. «Indeed,» he replied, his voice deliberate, the cadence of careful consideration threading each word. «To effect such an amendment, the first necessity is the verification of your existing documentation. Only once the authenticity of your current passport and related civil records is confirmed may I proceed.» He paused, letting the weight of the process sink in. «The alteration, particularly of the date of birth, must reflect not solely in the passport itself, but also in the parish metric books, the registry ledgers maintained here, and the internal archives of the civil authority. The procedure is not swift: in total, you may expect a fortnight’s duration, and the sum required, accounting for formalities and the delicate nature of the task, will be… two hundred rubles.»

Yarosvet tipped his head in silent acknowledgment, his eyes gathering each syllable as one might collect delicate fragments of light, weighing them with measured care. «A fortnight, then,» he murmured, «and two hundred rubles. I anticipated no less, and the assurance of discretion is, of course, implicit.»

Petrov allowed a shadow of a smile, though it was careful, restrained, a professional acknowledgment rather than a personal indulgence. «Discretion, naturally. For matters such as these, it is not merely advisable — it is essential. Any variance from proper conduct would imperil both the request and those who administer it. Should you consent, I shall begin the verification immediately, and once satisfied, draft the requisite petition to amend the records. Only upon the formal confirmation of approval may the new passport be issued with the corrected details, thereby aligning your documentation with the reality you now maintain.»

For a fleeting moment, Petrov’s composed expression flickered with something almost imperceptible — a subtle tightening at the corners of his eyes, a pause in the otherwise unbroken rhythm of his calm speech. «The sum I named — two hundred rubles — covers the official, sanctioned portion of the service,» he said carefully, his voice low and measured, each syllable chosen as if to weigh its significance. «Yet, considering the private and delicate nature of your request, and for the potential — though by no means guaranteed — expedition of the procedure, there exists… an additional agent’s fee. One hundred rubles, in cash.»

He let the words hover in the air between them, the hint of discretion woven into the cadence, acknowledging the unspoken understanding that not all measures were dictated by the letter of regulation, and that some matters required a shadowed path alongside the light of officialdom.

Yarosvet allowed a faint, imperceptible smile to curl the edge of his lips, a smile that bore the lightest tint of irony, tempered by the courtesy of a lifetime spent navigating both the subtleties of society and its many functionaries. He regarded Petrov with a steady, calm gaze, noting the careful phrasing, the measured hesitation over the additional fee — a dance he had witnessed countless times before in the offices of lesser men, in the quiet corridors of bureaucratic routine.

«Two hundred rubles for the official part,» he murmured softly, the words carrying a tone of polite amusement rather than judgment. «And another hundred, should one wish to… grease the wheels of fortune.» His voice was smooth, courteous, yet tinged with the knowing levity of one who has long seen the machinery behind such masks. Beneath the politeness lay the quiet recognition of an ordinary man performing his office with the utmost conscientiousness, unaware — or perhaps unconcerned — of the subtle amusement he had stirred in his visitor.

He leaned back slightly in the chair, fingers steepled lightly upon his knee, his posture composed, as if to convey the perfect ease of a man entirely at home in the company of predictable minds. «I see,» he added, with a gentle inflection that suggested both understanding and a barely veiled acknowledgment of the ordinary cleverness of the profession, «that even in these matters, one finds the familiar rhythms of a well-worn dance.»

Yarosvet’s fingers brushed the edge of a supple leather pocket-purse, the kind a well-to-do gentleman carried tucked deep in his coat pocket — flat, rectangular, yet generous enough to hold folded notes without crumpling them. With calm precision, he withdrew it and let two hundred-ruble notes flutter into his palm like autumn leaves.

Petrov’s composure cracked for a fraction — the faintest pause, a tightening around his eyes, an unspoken calculation. But he said nothing, merely inclined his head. Yarosvet folded the first note, placing it atop the ledger with a quiet authority. The second followed.

Then, with a subtle, ironic tilt of his brow, Yarosvet drew out a third note and let it rest, half-visible, between his fingers. He did not lay it on the desk, but held it as one might hold a final card in a game not yet concluded. «This,» he said softly, wry courtesy glinting in his tone, «you shall receive when the passport is placed into my hands.» The phrase carried no threat, only the urbane assurance of a man long practiced in such tacit bargains, where politeness masked the firmest of conditions.

Petrov’s fingers hovered briefly over the notes, then withdrew, returning to the ledger. No word passed, but the agreement — official and unofficial — shaped itself between them with the weight of paper and the soft rustle of deliberate compliance.

Petrov, perhaps wishing to reassert the official air of his office, straightened in his chair and reached not for any government ledger but for a small, well-worn notebook that clearly belonged to him alone. He flipped it open with a measured deliberation, the faint rasp of the pages betraying long familiarity, and poised his pencil above the margin.

«Let us be exact,» he said, his voice assuming the neutral cadence of a clerk transcribing immutable fact. «The present entry: year of birth — 1831. Appearance — hair grey, full, worn long; beard thick, same colour.» His eyes lifted from the page, one brow arching slightly. «And what, precisely, shall it be corrected to?»

Yarosvet allowed himself the faintest smile, his tone even yet touched with quiet amusement. «Why not appeal to impartial judgment, Mr Petrov? Ask your assistant what she sees before her. That, I think, would be closer to truth than anything I might dictate.»

Petrov’s lips pressed into a line, neither approval nor disapproval — only the suggestion of a man momentarily discomfited by being made to rely on another’s discretion. Yet after the briefest pause, he turned his head toward the door and called, his voice carrying with a clipped firmness:

«Inga!»

At the abrupt call of her name, Yarosvet’s brows lifted ever so slightly. Fortune, it seemed, had chosen to play its hand with an almost playful symmetry: the same young woman who had guided him through the threshold was now summoned as arbiter of his outward semblance. Yet in that moment, a keener thought stirred within him. Was this not the very Inga — she whose name alone had drawn him across provinces to Rostov-on-Don? The coincidence pressed against his mind with the quiet insistence of fate’s whisper.

To test the truth of his surmise, he let his gaze rest upon her with a sharpened patience, noting each delicate contour of her face, the composure of her step, but most of all — the look in her eyes. It was there, in that steady, unflinching regard, that certainty dawned: she already knew who he was, and her recognition carried neither alarm nor surprise, but a calm acknowledgment, as though his arrival had been expected long before he crossed the threshold.

The realisation sent through him a subtle thrill, though outwardly he betrayed nothing but the polite intensity of his gaze. It pleased him, this tacit recognition, as though he were less a petitioner before officialdom and more an actor in a play whose companion upon the stage had already grasped her role.

Petrov cleared his throat softly, the tip of his pencil pausing above the page. With a glance that straddled both formality and casual authority, he turned toward the young woman who had just stepped into the room.

«Inga,» he said, his voice carrying the unadorned cadence of a man accustomed to practical shortcuts, «we have here a matter that requires a certain impartial judgement. Would you, on your unprejudiced female eye, tell me how our visitor’s appearance ought properly to be set down for a passport? Hair, beard — those trifles clerks like to embroider with needless detail. And, most importantly, how many years would you say may honestly be ascribed to him?»

The request, though framed as a task, bore the casualness of a man certain of his authority: not a question so much as an instruction, softened by the notion of feminine discernment.

Inga’s gaze shifted to Yarosvet, calm yet alert, the barest flicker of understanding sparking in her eyes. She measured him in silence, her expression free of exaggeration, as though she were appraising not a person but a portrait in need of annotation. At length, she spoke evenly, her voice carrying a clarity that left no doubt she had considered him carefully:

«His head is shaven clean,» she began, her tone even, her gaze never straying from Yarosvet. «The beard — trimmed short, of a deep chestnut.» She allowed the words to rest between them, the faintest nuance in her voice betraying awareness of the artifice. A heartbeat passed in silence, her eyes still fixed upon him, steady and searching. «As for his years,» she concluded, with a slight curve of her lips, «I would say no more than forty-five.»

Petrov nodded slowly, tapping a finger against his desk in measured consideration. «Forty-five,» he murmured, almost to himself, yet with a clarity that drew Yarosvet’s attention. «Ah, that is excellent. Quite convenient, indeed — merely a small alteration in the date, and 1831 need only have its „3“ replaced by a „5“. Simple arithmetic, yet it spares us unnecessary complication.» He allowed a faint, self-satisfied smile to flicker, as if this small numerical insight were its own quiet triumph of efficiency.

Inga let her head drift to one side, as if weighing her words before they formed, curiosity glinting in her eyes. «And… what else?» she asked, her tone neither pressing nor casual, but precise, as if she sought only what was essential.

Petrov’s gaze shifted to Yarosvet, calm and deliberate. «If we have covered all necessary particulars, then Inga will see you out,» he said, the hint of command tempered by the ease of routine. His words bore the weight of office authority, yet delivered without friction.

Yarosvet inclined his head, a gesture of quiet acknowledgment, and followed Inga. The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving the office in its familiar, measured stillness.

Inga guided Yarosvet to the exit, her steps measured and unobtrusive. Reaching the threshold, she leaned just slightly closer, her voice a quiet murmur meant for him alone. «I am glad you have come,» she said, a soft warmth threading through the words. «In half an hour, I have my lunch break. Wait for me at the café across the square,» she added, indicating the modest establishment with a subtle tilt of her hand. Her glance lingered only briefly, but it was enough for Yarosvet to sense both welcome and discretion — an invitation cloaked in careful civility.

Yarosvet offered a half-smile, inclining his head with a trace of mischief. «It appears I shall find your company worth every minute of waiting, ” he said, letting the words linger with gentle amusement.

He stepped onto the sun-dappled square, letting his eyes roam with deliberate ease until the modest café on the far side of the street caught his attention. Its exterior was modest — cream-painted walls, ivy creeping lazily along the façade, a wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze — but there was a quiet charm in its restrained elegance, the kind that suggested both discretion and a measured hospitality.

He crossed the cobblestones with the unhurried precision of a man accustomed to observing the world as he passed through it, noting the subtle arrangement of tables beneath the awning and the soft clink of porcelain from within. Choosing a table set slightly back from the window, out of immediate view from the square, he ensured that any passerby would not easily spot him — nor, more importantly, make Inga uneasy. The seat offered both privacy and an unobstructed line to the entrance, allowing him to see her approach without strain.

Once seated, he perused the menu with the faintest arch of an eyebrow, then beckoned a waiter with polite authority. «A pot of green tea, if you please,» he requested, «and perhaps a small plate of delicate pastries to accompany it — nothing too heavy, as I understand we shall soon share a proper meal.» The order was both practical and considerate, a prelude to a leisurely lunch that he intended to share with her.

As he settled in, Yarosvet allowed himself a small, reflective smile, noting the simple yet meticulous arrangement of the café: the soft linen napkins, the polished wood of the tables, the gentle warmth of sunlight filtering through the awning. Every detail spoke to the quiet care of its proprietor, and to him it seemed perfectly suited for a meeting that required both attention and the subtle comfort of discretion.

Yarosvet lifted the delicate porcelain cup, the steam curling in thin, aromatic spirals, and let the warm infusion settle into him with a calm, measured rhythm. As the gentle bitterness of the green tea touched his tongue, his thoughts drifted inevitably toward Inga.

He recalled the first impression she had made upon entering the office: her posture, at once assured and unassuming, the fluid grace with which she navigated the space, the faint quirk of a smile that suggested wit tempered by discretion. He remembered how her eyes — sharp, yet not unkind — had met his, holding a knowing steadiness that betrayed her awareness of him before he had even introduced himself. There was a quiet luminosity in the gaze, a subtle confidence that neither demanded attention nor shied from it.

He traced, in memory, the gentle sweep of her hair, the soft contour of her face framed by strands that caught the light, the way she inclined her head in response to Petrov’s summons, a motion both deliberate and fluid. Even the faintest gestures — the tilt of her chin, the poised angle of her shoulders — spoke of a mind fully alert, attuned to the nuances of her surroundings.

Yarosvet sipped his tea, letting its warmth anchor him while his thoughts traced her movements. He pictured her crossing the square, the casual elegance of her stride, the effortless grace that made the mundane act of walking appear significant. His mind lingered on her eyes, the way they had met his with an almost conspiratorial understanding, and he allowed himself the private pleasure of anticipation — the exquisite sort that made waiting less a trial and more a delicate indulgence.

By the time the café door opened, Yarosvet’s attention was fully attuned, his eyes scanning for her familiar presence. The moment she stepped inside, he caught her glance instantly, noting how it carried the same knowing steadiness he had seen earlier, a silent acknowledgment that seemed to bridge the short distance between observation and recognition.

Yarosvet’s gaze dwelt appreciatively as she stepped into the café, and he noted, with the quiet delight of a connoisseur, how subtly she had transformed since their encounter at the office. A gentle sweep of colour touched her cheeks, and her eyes seemed to have gained an almost imperceptible extra brilliance, widening with the play of light that made each glance feel more intent, more alive. Her lips, tinted just enough to catch the eye without artifice, curved into a greeting that was at once modest and magnetic.

Her attire spoke more of modesty than display: a plain woollen skirt of deep grey, practical yet well-fitted, and a high-necked blouse of pale cream, softened by the faint shimmer of a silk ribbon at the throat. Over her shoulders had hung a dark coat trimmed with a narrow band of fur, now left in the cloakroom, so that her figure seemed at once lighter and more defined. A small felt hat, sober in shape, bore only a slim ribbon and a discreet veil, which framed her face without obscuring its freshness. There was nothing lavish in her appearance, and yet, in that very restraint, lay a grace that drew the eye more surely than any finery. Yarosvet, with a subtle inward smile, allowed himself the pleasure of noticing these details — the soft interplay of fabric, colour, and form — each element reinforcing the impression that she was, in every careful measure, both unassuming and compelling, a person whose very appearance invited attentive, deliberate observation.

Yarosvet rose as soon as she approached, his movement unhurried yet full of that courtly precision, which lent the smallest gesture a quiet dignity. Inga returned his courtesy with a soft smile, lowering herself gracefully into the chair he had drawn forward. Her glance moved briefly around the little dining room, then back to him.

«You have chosen wisely,» she said, the corners of her lips curving with a warmth not entirely formal. «This little secluded corner could not have suited the occasion better.»

He inclined his head, amusement flickering in his eyes, and when the waiter lingered near, he asked gently, almost as if it were part of their private understanding:

«And what will you take for luncheon? Indulge me, I insist — it shall be my pleasure to play host.»

At that, she coloured faintly, lowering her lashes in a semblance of modesty; yet her gaze soon lifted again, steady and discerning, the same keen look with which, in the office, she had so boldly appraised his years. It was clear enough she felt the difference — he was not, for her, merely another gentleman caller, but something she had already half recognised, though she would not yet name it.

«They prepare their dishes with unusual care here,» she replied at last, her voice composed though carrying that secret undertone. «The stewed lamb, I am told, is excellent; and for those with lighter taste, their fish soup is praised as well.»

«And tell me, Inga,» he said, the trace of a smile warming his tone, «what shall we order to drink? Tea again — or will you allow me to tempt you with something stronger?»

She smiled, lowering her eyes for a moment before lifting them to his with a hint of playfulness. «I leave it to your choice, Yarosvet Alexeyevich — only keep in mind, I must still serve half a day in the office.»

«Then we shall not tempt fate with anything stronger. A pot of fine black tea, perhaps — tempered with lemon for clarity, and a touch of honey, to sweeten the labours yet ahead.» He beckoned the waiter with the unhurried assurance of a man long accustomed to being obeyed, and when the order was given, turned his gaze back to Inga with quiet amusement. «Thus fortified, the office hours may seem less cruel, and our conversation more companionable.»

Yarosvet, having leaned back a little with the air of a man at ease, caught her sidelong glance. It was fleeting, almost cautious, yet not without a trace of curiosity — as if she could not quite resist continuing her silent survey of him. A faint smile touched his lips; he lowered his voice, allowing it to carry a warmth that did not contradict his habitual irony.

«You have,» he said, with the deliberateness of one who does not squander words, «a remarkably beautiful face. One that ought not to go unremarked.»

Inga’s lashes flickered, and though she composed herself quickly, a blush rose faintly upon her cheekbones. She tilted her chin with a mixture of defiance and shy pleasure, and in her eyes there was both reproach and laughter.

«Liza wrote to me that you were terribly direct in your speech,» she answered, half in jest, half in earnest. «Now I see she did not exaggerate.»

Yarosvet let a faint, teasing curve tug at his lips, his gaze flicking to hers with a subtle gleam of amusement. «One might hazard that your visage has a certain… persuasive charm, though I fear I lack the proper vocabulary to do it justice,» he offered, voice smooth, measured, the compliment wrapped in an almost scholarly detachment. «Would you deem this version more pleasing, or does my tongue still rush where it ought to linger?»