Chapter Three

“No, Mishka. I’ll take care of Miss Cleo.”

Serge stepped between Cleo and the tall man who had offered to drive her. A light shrug and Mishka moved on toward another person, hoping for a fare from them.

Serge looked directly into Cleo’s eyes and questioned, “You know where you wish to go now, da?”

Cleo smiled at the man with whom, for some reason, she felt extremely safe. Being in his presence was like being with her father. And, being in a strange country, that was such a wonderful feeling. “I know where I’d like to start.”

Serge opened the door to his cab, the front door, and held it for her. “Come, let us get going on your tour.”

Eagerly, Cleo climbed in. It might not be common for passengers to ride in the front seat, but she felt comfortable enough with him to do just that. She sent him another smile as he closed the door after her.

As he slid behind the wheel, he turned his salt-and-pepper-haired head toward his passenger. “To begin?”

“I want to see St. Basil’s Cathedral,” she said.

He nodded. “Pokrovsky Sobor.”

“What is that?” Cleo placed her gaze on him.

“What we call St. Basil’s Cathedral. Sometimes, it is Pokrovsky Cathedral, as well. And, it is also called Russian Svyatoy Vasily Blazhenny.”

“Pokrovsky Sobor. Russian Svyatoy Vasily Blazhenny.” Cleo mimicked the stresses she heard in his voice. “Was that close?”

“Perfect. You will be speaking like a native in no time. Do you speak Russian?”

“No, not really. I’ve studied the mythology and the history of this country, but neglected the language.” She chuckled wryly. “Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Nyet. The language will come, in time. Worry not.” He pulled into a parking lot and shut off the vehicle.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Cleo asked as he helped her out of the vehicle.

“No. Unless,” he paused as he closed the door behind her, “you wished to view this alone.”

Instantly contrite, she placed her hand on his arm and squeezed it gently. “I would love to have you with me; if you are sure you don’t need to be somewhere else.”

“I’m sure.” He gestured for her to start walking and fell into step beside her. “So, tell me, Cleo Laurens, do you know the history of this place?”

“Not as much as I would like.” But, to me, unless I am allowed to totally soak it up personally, it’ll never be enough. Her gaze traveled around Red Square in which the immense and colorful cathedral had been constructed. “I know it was built by Tsar Ivan the Fourth some time between fifteen-fifty-four and fifteen-sixty as some type of offering for his military victories.”

The older man nodded. “Da. There is a legend, however, that says this was built by an Italian architect who was blinded and couldn’t create anything equal or similar.” He laughed loudly. “St. Basil was buried in the church vaults during the reign of Tsar Fyodor the First.”

Cleo thought for a moment and said, “That would have been fifteen-eighty-four to ninety-eight.” She frowned and looked between her driver and her guidebook. “What was it before that?”

Serge grinned as if proud she had picked that up so quickly. “This was dedicated to the safeguard and prayer of the Virgin and wasn’t known as it is now until after Basil.”

“Wow. Look at this.” Awestruck, she gazed about. “It is beautiful.”

“Da.”

“Let me see if I have this right. There are nine separate chapels, and each one is capped with its own dome. And, each of those domes is individually shaped and colored.”

“Again, I am very impressed.” Halting their forward progress, Serge mentioned to her. “And, you know about Red Square, of course.”

“Somewhat. How is it called in Russian?”

“Krasnaya Ploshchad.”

Her mouth moved as she silently formed the words. “I know it was once the site of executions and many military parades. It’s bordered by the Kremlin, Lenin’s Tomb and a department store.”

“I like you, Cleo Laurens.” He gestured forward and escorted her inside the multicolored cathedral.

Cleo spent a good portion of the day inside walking around. It was so beautiful she didn’t want to leave. If Serge had anywhere else to be, he never made mention of it. He never rushed her. Instead, he stayed with her the whole time, indulging her desire to soak up the beauty surrounding her.

****

Serge watched the way Cleo’s eyes took in the history of his country as she moved through the museum. It was like she was a sponge and the Russian culture a liquid she absorbed. He noticed some of the other patrons staring at her as if trying to see the exact thing she saw. Trying to uncover the connection she alone seemed to have found. And, he watched them fail at it. The rate at which she seemed to process what he told her amazed him.

With astute observations, he also noticed some of the men watching her in a less than favorable fashion, in his mind. Miss Cleopatra Laurens was a rarity in Russia; there weren’t many black women around. Regardless of skin color, however, she was a beautiful woman. She was going to be attracting a lot of attention during her stay.

Even under the thick winter coat she wore, he could tell she was athletic. Her hair was thick, shiny, and hung free, landing below her shoulder blades. Cleo’s skin was the shade of rich amaretto and shone with good health. Her face was triangular; a cute nose and full lips were upon it. She had doubly thick sooty lashes framing her darkly alluring sepia eyes.

A refreshing look from the normal around here, many were going to find her exotic. And, they well should. For she was beautiful. Both inside and out. On that, he would bet his livelihood.