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field-s-of-flowers · 2 years

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Havana, chapter 7

Midnight was so different in Atlanta. Clearer, somehow, and brighter than the city lights Hélène was so used to. She vaguely recalled why: a phenomenon known as light pollution, in which a street lamp or a lit apartment window could upstage the stars. It was pretty fascinating, really. Out of sight, they were, and so out of mind.

That had to be a metaphor for something, right? There were people who thought of themselves as stars. Her brother, for one. Anatole could go on and on for hours to Hélène about whatever new thing he last discovered. Sometimes, it could even be kind of beautiful. But there’s only one poet in any family. And stars didn’t apply to Hélène, anyway. They hadn’t for a while.

So why did it feel like the stars were watching her tonight?

“Are you going to bed anytime soon?”

Two weeks had passed since Hélène arrived. Right from the moment she stepped off the ferry, she’d felt a sense of different-ness. A sense of being at home, not at all what she’d had with Pierre. Comfortable, like she didn’t need to constantly put on a show for Natasha or Sonya or Marya.

Oh, Marya.

“Sit with me,” Hélène murmured in way of an answer. “Just for a little while.”

Marya cocked her head, but sat down all the same.

“It’s funny,” she said. “Before I met you, I had a picture in my mind of how you looked. Pierre talked about you so much back at home that I felt like I knew you already.”

“What was it?”

“Mm?”

“What did I look like?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You were older, I think, than you are. And you were always wearing black.”

Marya laughed. “That is funny. I always pictured you in white.”

Oh, that laugh. It was rare, and never failed to make Hélène blush. A small glimmer decorated ice-blue eyes, and a small dimple grew on her cheek. One more new thing I’m learning about you.

“White,” she repeated, “just like the moon right now.”

The moon was a crescent tonight, surrounded by glittering stars and inky clouds. When the moon waned, as Hélène heard once, the stars always looked just a little brighter, a little starker against the sky. The metaphor wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

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field-s-of-flowers · 3 years

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Havana 5

“So what do you have in the way of drinks here?”

Marya’s kitchen was huge. The floor was checkered black and white, little flowers grew in the window, and it smelled like sugar. There had to be something, somewhere. Hélène was parched after the long walk she took with Natasha.

“You don’t mean alcohol, do you? Because I don’t keep that in the house.”

“Not what I meant, although it’d be nice,” she said, eyes meeting Marya’s in a little smirk.

“Well, you can throw away those hopes and dreams. All I have is leftover tea.”

Hélène’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. Tea was okay, but it wasn’t fun. It wasn’t fizzy, it wasn’t minty, it didn’t particularly taste like anything. Walking with Natasha had made her expect something... a little more exciting. And Hélène didn’t know why, but she really wanted to do something exciting with Marya in particular.

“Tea is fine,” she said, attempting indifference.

“Good. Meet me out on the patio, I’ll ice some up.” There was no smile on her lips, but Marya’s eyes seemed to glint with some kind of anticipation, though Hélène couldn’t say for the life of her what it was. They’d barely spent two days together, but she could already sense a kindred spirit, an Alma Gemela, who knew all too well the game that they had to play, and who was sick of games. But tea and serious talk didn’t seem so bad on the patio.

Sunset was falling. The sky was hazy, blurring a tangerine glow that Hélène had seen so clearly the night before. Dragonflies flitted near the little bluebells that Sonya had planted that spring. Was every night in Atlanta this uniquely romantic, this sweet and orange-tinted and warm? The cloying heat Hélène was so used to was nowhere to be found.

Marya’s face appeared in the doorway. Apparently Hélène had taken more time than she had thought.

“Here, have a sip,” Marya said, sitting down in the chair right next to her. Two icy-cold glasses sat on the table, a slice of lemon in each one. “It didn’t take too long to make. I hope you like it.”

One sip was enough for Hélène’s tastebuds to explode in a burst of unexpected sweetness. A little sugar in tea was expected, but this was something else entirely. Before she knew it, Marya’s face and dress were covered in cold tea.

“I am so sorry-”

Hélène’s shocked pause only gave way for her to see Marya’s bemused smile.

“Not used to sweet tea, are we? Natasha introduced me to it, and there was a bit of that shock, but you’ll like it just as I did...”

“Did you... trick me? Into drinking tea?”

The dimple on Marya’s cheek grew as she smiled even wider. How long had that been there? It served only to make her look even more beautiful.

“And what if I did?”

“Well, I would say,” said Hélène with a laugh, “That you are some kind of lady, Mrs. Marya Akhrosimov.”

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field-s-of-flowers · 3 years

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Havana character descriptions!

Natasha: She/her, 19. Marya’s goddaughter. Born in the US to immigrant parents. Currently staying with Marya in Atlanta.

Sonya: She/her, 21. Marya’s goddaughter. Russian immigrant, lives with Marya in Atlanta.

Marya: She/her, 40. Sonya and Natasha’s godmother. Russian immigrant, lives with her goddaughters in Atlanta. Pierre’s close friend.

Anatole: He/him, 31. Hélène’s younger brother. Cuban, born and raised in Havana.

Hélène: She/her, 36. Pierre’s wife. Cuban, born and raised in Havana.

Dolokhov: He/him, 33. Anatole’s best friend, Hélène’s ex-lover. Russian, lives in Havana.

Old Prince Bolkonsky: He/him, 69 (nice). Mary and Andrey’s father. Russian immigrant, lives with Mary in Atlanta.

Mary: She/her, 22. Andrey’s sister, OPB’s daughter, Sonya’s girlfriend. Born in Atlanta to immigrant parents, lives with OPB.

Balaga: He/him, age unknown. One of Anatole’s friends. Cuban born and raised- we think. He’s mysterious.

Andrey: He/him, 29. Mary’s brother, OPB’s son and Pierre’s best friend. Born in Russia, moved to Atlanta as a young child and still lives there.

Pierre: He/him, 34. Hélène’s husband, friend of both Andrey and Marya. Lived most of his live in Russia, currently lives in Havana.

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