Forbidden Love in St. Petersburg

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THOSE WHO LOVE the city as much as I do simply call it Peter, said Anna. We were standing on a narrow bridge straddling one of the canals that flow into the River Neva and on into the Gulf of Finland. It was a clear, chilly evening. A thin layer of snow covered the streets. We leant on a steel railing, feeling its patterned engravings, admiring the old mansions on both banks of the canal, so rich in colour, so elegant with their porticos and carved cornices.

The cobble-stones beneath our feet may once have allowed for the easy passage of horse-drawn carriages, but now created a difficult surface for cars to negotiate. But there were no vehicles crossing now, and the few pedestrians to be seen were scurrying to get to their homes in the small lanes on either side of the waterway. On the bridge itself there was nobody but us.

Anna covered her mouth and slender, straight nose in a white woollen scarf. I gazed at her. Between the fur-topped hat, also white, and the scarf, all that could be seen were her high cheek bones and almond-shaped brownish-green eyes. As she caught my stare a few creases appeared in the corners of her eyes, giving her that special look–something between laughter and astonishment.

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