The Early Ayn Rand

The general was the first to appear, bent under a huge crated object. Joan heard his heavy steps in the corridor. She opened the library door and watched him pass on his way upstairs.

"I think it's an armchair," the general grinned at her, passing by. "It feels like one. Although I've never yet felt an armchair from the underside."

The next one to come was Comrade Fedossitch. He shuffled to the library door and stopped, saluting, out of breath.

"It's here, Comrade Commandant. It's arrived," he reported, servility fighting indignation in his voice. "The boat's arrived. Don't you want to come down and watch the men — under the unusual circumstances?"

Commandant Kareyev waved his hand, annoyed.

"I thought I told you to watch them. You can do it. I'm busy.”

More packages came, carried through the corridor, up the stairs to Kareyev's room. The prisoners' boots left tracks of dirty, melting snow as they passed.

The professor and the Senator came with a long, heavy roll of carpet. The professor smiled at Joan. The Senator, his beard longer, his cheeks whiter than before, turned his head away.

The young engineer carried a box in which something rattled with a metallic sound. His cheeks were beginning to acquire an unnatural bright rosiness. His eyes sparkled with a feverish vivacity.

"I think it's for Miss Harding," he said aloud as if to himself, passing by the library door, rattling the box, watching Joan from the corner of his eye. "I admire the Commandant — for the first time."

The Count carried a carefully crated box stuffed with straw. He held it with the reverence due a priceless load. The load made the sound of clinking glass.

"Congratulations, Miss Harding," he smiled triumphantly, winking at the box. "That is what I call a real victory!"

Commandant Kareyev watched Joan's wide, questioning eyes as they followed the procession up the stairs. He did not explain.

Michael stopped at the open door. His tall shoulders were beginning to droop; so did the corners of his mouth. His eyes were darker than usual; and that darkness, like a wave of unbearable pain, seemed to have overflown his eyes and frozen in blue puddles of circles under them. The sparkling defiance of Michael Volkontzev was gone; a brooding bitterness had taken its place.

He carried on his shoulders a large bundle sewn in heavy burlap. It seemed soft and light. He looked at Joan and Kareyev in the doorway, her head resting on his shoulder.

"These are pillows, I believe," said Michael. "Do they go to your room or her room — or does it make any difference?"

Joan did not raise her head.

"To my room," said Kareyev.

Joan wore her blue dress for dinner. The dark velvet clung to her body tightly, almost too tightly; but a severe military collar clasped her neck high under her chin.

One candle burned on the table in the middle of Commandant Kareyev's room. It made a little island of light in the darkness, and a bright flame in the black panes of the window. She saw the shadows of long dark drapes; she felt a soft carpet under her feet. Two big armchairs stood at the table. A white stain in the darkness by the wall was a heavy lace spread on the bed with faint glimmers of candlelight in the new satin pillows.

"It's all for your room," Kareyev hurried to explain, smiling happily, almost bashfully, before she could say a word. "It's here... just for a surprise."

Across the swaying candle flame, Joan smiled at him. His eyes did not leave her. He watched for her to notice the snow-white tablecloth, the delicate china dishes, the little red sparks dancing in the silverware and the tall cut-glass goblets.

Joan's eyes had melted into a soft, dreamy warmth. When she looked at Kareyev they sparkled with more than the candlelight's reflection. They stopped one second longer than a glance required, lingering in a caress for the two of them alone to understand.

They were not alone. A waiter stood by the wall. It was Michael's turn to wait on the Commandant's table.

He stood, hunching his shoulders, thrusting his head forward, watching solicitously Commandant Kareyev's every movement, stiff and smiling discreetly, an exaggerated picture of a correct waiter. He had thrown a white napkin over his arm — which had never been required. The maître d’hôtel of one of the fashionable restaurants which Michael Volkontzev used to visit would not have approved, however, of the look in that perfect waiter's eyes.

"This is our anniversary, Joan," said Kareyev, when they sat down. "Don't you remember? You came here three months ago."

She smiled, indicating the table:

"And such is the end of Commandant Kareyev."

"No. The beginning."

He leaned closer to her, speaking eagerly.

"I'll bring everything you want here. I'll make this island for you — what you make it for me."

“What I've made it — for us."

She did not notice Michael's eyes that seemed to gather her every syllable, tearing them, in silent, ferocious agony, off her lips.