Free Sweet Love, Survive by Susan Johnson Page A

adieu, his heavy saddlebags slung over one shoulder. “I’ve hitched a ride with Sergei to Baku. He managed to requisition some gas for his Niewport.” When Apollo’s eyebrows lifted, Peotr added, “Don’t ask me where.
Bon Noël, mon ami
. I’ve two full days with Suata and the children.”
    “I see,” Apollo said slowly, digesting this remarkable turn of events and realizing upon further contemplation that he didn’t see at all. Leaving one’s wife alone at Christmastime was a bit too blasé even for his hardened conscience—but it was none of his business, Apollo decided with his usual cool pragmatism. Wishing Peotr a
Joyeux Noël
in return, he refrained from asking the obvious question about Kitty. “My best to Suata,” he added, pouring himself another drink from the cognac bottle he’d been saving since Niiji. Everyone had taken to their habitual form of relaxation since Taganrog had been sighted, and several groups of men were at ease on the banquettes that had so often served as beds on the journey south from Kharkov.
    Peotr nodded happily. “Thanks, I’ll relay the message.”
    “And to Mirza and Alina, too, of course.”
    Peotr’s mouth widened into a beaming smile. “You should see Mirza, Apollo. He’s almost six now and rides a horse like he was born in the saddle. Since you saw him last year he’s grown another three inches.”
    “And Alina,” Apollo teased, “does she ride like an Amazon?” Alina was only five, but on Apollo’s visit to Baku a year ago, little Alina, darkly beautiful and dainty as a Dresden doll, was determined to keep up with her older brother.
    Peotr laughed aloud. “Damned if she doesn’t. On that point Suata and I have finally agreed. Suata, as you know, was raised in the Moslem ways, but I won’t allow my daughter to bereared in that restricted fashion. Alina does exactly what Mirza does, causing Suata to frequently throw up her hands in dismay at such unladylike behavior.”
    “Sensible of you to insist, Peotr,” Apollo said. “That sort of harem training has to be a thing of the past. Good God, it’s the twentieth century.”
    “That’s what I said to Suata.” Peotr grinned. “She finally came ’round to my way of thinking.”
    Like any well-trained, harem-raised wife, Apollo thought. That precise lack of independence Peotr deplored for his daughter, that harem-schooled acquiescence and emphasis on male-pleasing, was exactly what he found gratifying and lovable in Suata. Evidently Peotr had never seen the discrepancy, too heedlessly self-centered to perceive the incongruity. Although Apollo and Peotr had been friends for years, Apollo recognized that Peotr generally put his own pleasure and comfort first, though in a blithely innocent way, like an unassuming child, egotistically certain that the world centered on him.
    Through the window Apollo caught sight of a frantically waving aviator across the snow-covered railway tracks. “There’s Sergei, waving at you to hurry.”
    Peotr shifted his saddlebags. “Right. I’m off, then. I see the Red Cross nurses are here in force. I’ll leave you to your life of depravity, and with your recent boudoir history common gossip—Apollo’s eyes came up in a startled action, and then he realized Peotr was speaking only in general terms—“the Red Crosses are probably drawing lots for you already.” Peotr smiled at Apollo amiably.
    His composure restored, Apollo quipped, “And you’re leaving them all to me?”
    “This time, mon ami. This time, they’re all yours. I suggest you take a break in your drinking and eat a hearty meal. You’ll need your strength. See you in four days.” A smile spread across his swarthy face. “Provided there’s anything left of you.”
    Apollo looked squarely at Peotr, his expression pure as a nun at prayer. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll probably spend the holiday alone with a good book.”
    Peotr’s brows lifted dramatically. “Ha!” he said succinctly. Halfway