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The night was cold, and the house smelled like caramel. On the dinky brass stove, Pavel Fyodorovich stood, hunched intently over his pot of sugar. Alone, he dipped his wooden spoon into the solution. With caramel, it’s necessary to cook it at the right temperature for just the right amount of time. Pavel learned this the hard way. When the caramel overcooked, singing the pan, the house would often reek like a forest fire. He’d have to scramble to keep the windows open and fan out the smell before any of his half-brothers, or, God forbid, Fyodor Pavlovich, came home. Other times, it was far too intense, sweet and loose enough to cause tooth decay. Light and syrupy caramel had to have the right amount of consistency, not too much grain, not too much drip. Like everything else, there was a Goldilocks spot to it. A fulcrum, something necessary to gain balance, perfection, placidity. But there’s no need to dwell on the semantics. For the aromatic smell of homemade caramel was slowly overtaking the entire household.
Caramel had always been his favorite thing to make while at school. Something so mind-numbingly sweet required just the right amount of observance and technique. So, while at home, it’s what he made when bored, listless, with nothing on his hands but an empty kitchen and a bag of sugar. It came with the added bonus of the sweet scent, something that he was certain everyone in the house enjoyed passively. The house smelled often of caramel and vanilla. Nobody had ever made a comment, say, except Dmitri, who spent some time quietly rustling and wandering about the kitchen trying to find the source. He’d never ask Pavel, of course. And Pavel would never bring it up. In fact, it wasn’t often he made dessert. Dessert had become something private, something personal. Baking had become a sort of escape, something for him to relish in private. Pavel would try and surprise or impress Ivan sometimes, baking him a special cake on his birthday or giving Alyosha a tart, but those moments were spontaneous. For Pavel, baking was a private act.
It was late, and the only people in the house were sleeping. Dmitri could not be caught dead asleep at home, and Alyosha was quick to pass out as soon as his head hit the pillow. Fyodor Pavlovich was sprawled out on the couch, flask dangling out of his hand, snoring, dead asleep. Pavel, in nothing but a loose shirt, his trousers, and a pair of Alyosha’s slippers, stood over his stove, swirling his caramel. It was yet to blacken, yet to grow syrupy and thick. Watching as the sugar bubbled and boiled, Pavel waited patiently for the right moment. So focused on his mastery, Pavel had failed to include a certain someone in his headcount. Strange - perhaps he figured Ivan was out drinkingr or wining and dining some woman, or passed out in bed like Alyosha. The thought hadn’t occurred to him until Pavel heard the door swing open.
“Take it off,” cried a woman’s voice, then unknown to him. “Now! Come on!”
“Quiet. My brother and my father are still here, we ought to be… Ah, come here.”
The pair blindly stumbled into the kitchen. Ivan was pressed against a woman far taller than himself, fumbling with the strings of her dress. The unknown woman was fumbling with her bustle, desperately trying to undo the back as Ivan undid the front, revealing layers upon layers of undershirts and a distinct white crinoline. A blue dress at last dropped to the floor, and Pavel quickly picked the pot off the stove, a last ditch attempt to escape before awkwardly intruding on the couple’s privacy. But, in his alacrity, Pavel dropped his wooden spoon to the floor, then, upon pressing his hands on the pot, was met with searingly hot metal. The pot dropped, Pavel did a dance to avoid further injuring himself, and backed up into the stove. He fidgeted with the burners, at last letting the small flame die out, and closed his eyes as he realized that the house had gone completely silent.
“What..?” Ivan stuck his head from around the threshhold. His vest and undershirt had been long undone, yet now he sheepishly covered his chest upon seeing Pavel. Still, behind the glasses still perched on his nose, Ivan’s eyebrows furrowed in an expression of rage. Pavel, frozen, watched as Ivan’s partner turned to look at him. Long red hair fell over olive skin, nearly obscuring a pair of dark brown eyes outlined only in the kitchen’s dim light. Combined with the telltale powder blue dress, and the distinct air of regality this woman carried, Pavel almost immediately singled her out as Katerina Verkhovetseva, the source of much melodrama between not just one, but two of his half-brothers.
Katerina Verkhovetseva, the ice queen, the wicked with and the wealthy belle of the ball. She had charmed not one but two Karamazovs, or, as Fyodor Pavlovich would put it, seduced. While in town, Pavel had grown accustomed to listening to the rumors and stories of Katerina’s cold disposition and her mania. Yet whenever he spied her, from a distance, at church, at Dmitri, or now Ivan’s, side, she carried herself with a certain grace. The way she looked now, frazzled and rosy-cheeked and toothy, brought a new light to her face.
Instantly he looked to the floor, hurrying to set the pot right. Fortunately, the caramel had grown just the right consistency at just the right moment to prevent it from spilling out onto the floor, and Pavel sighed with relief. “Forgive me,” he murmured, setting the pot back on the stove. “I thought you were home.”
“No,” Ivan snarled. “No, obviously not. Get out.”
Pavel picked up the spoon, stealing another glance at Katerina Verkhovetseva. To Pavel’s surprise, she smiled at him keenly. “This must be the Pavel Fyodorovich I’ve heard so much about,” she started, crossing her arms with a grin. “This one always has a lot to say about you.” Katerina grabbed a glowering Ivan’s chin. “What’s that on the stove, there?”
“Katya,” he snapped.
“No, no, please. I’m not ashamed of this. I think a meeting with such a beloved brother is long overdue.”
“Half-brother.”
“Either way,” Katya replied dryly, tilting her head as she observed Pavel. “What a specimen you are.”
A specimen. Pavel’s mouth quirked up at the corner, and he nodded. “I’m Pavel Fyodorovich. You must be Lady Katerina.”
“Lady I am not, but you’d be right.” She stepped forward, revealing herself in the light. Modestly, she pulled her spencer jacket back up over her corset. Pavel saw her fully now. She was wiry, thin, almost sickly-looking. He had always viewed her as severe, a librarian, hair braided and pulled back, but now it was loose and wild, falling over her face and shoulders. Pavel pulled his loose shirt close, hurrying to button it. “How strange you are. He said you like to cook, but…”
Ivan cut her off, storming across the kitchen and into the parlor. “Where’s papa?”
Pavel tilted his head to the sofa, and Ivan hurried over in a huff.
“So, what are you making this late in the evening? Smells sweet.”
“Caramel.”
“Caramel? That’s sickly.”
“Awful sickly,” Pavel agreed with a nod, though he didn’t quite agree. “Unless, of course, you do it just right…”
“Just right?”
“Just right.” Pavel nodded, chewing his lip. “Baking is very precise. With cooking you can be a little more free-spirited, but to achieve a certain… je ne sais quoi… you need to be precise.”
Katya beamed. “Oh, que amusante. My, he’s amusing, Vanka. What were you ever talking about?”
Ivan was gently removing the silver flask out of “Papa’s” hand. “Pavel Fyodorvich,” he began, slipping it into his pocket, “should really be in the servant’s quarters at this hour. This is an unexpected intrusion.”
“Unexpected but welcome, I believe.” Katerina brushed her hair out of her face. “I haven’t had the chance to meet Pavel, so perhaps we could have a bit of small talk while you prepare the room, Ivan?”
“No!” Ivan rushed back over, grabbing Katerina’s hand. “This is all rather silly. Please, Katyenka, let’s just get back to what we were doing…”
“I can put on tea,” Pavel muttered.
“Well, Vanka, we have the entire night,” she shot back, stroking Ivan’s shoulders.
“But…”
“Why don’t we let Pavel Fyodorvich put on the kettle, and we can all settle down a bit?” Katya released Ivan with a kiss on the neck, before bending down and starting to stretch her undone bustle back over its crinoline. Reaching her hands behind her back, she started to fasten her bodice yet again, humming as Pavel searched for the kettle. Ivan, red in the face, scowled as he stood in the kitchen’s corner.
Pavel turned on the stove, and placed the filled kettle down.
“Does Pavel speak any French?”
“Very little,” Pavel replied, his eyes lighting up. “But I’ve always wanted to study French. Live in Paris. I’d love to do that.”
“I’ve been to Paris many times. You know, there’s many excellent cooks there. And philosophers. Ivan told me you’re very interested in philosophy. Always talking up a storm with him. Getting him very riled up sometimes.”
“That’s not true…”
“Well, I do like philosophy. Religion. Like Ivan.” Pavel lowered his head. “And, cooking in France… I’ve always wanted to make patisserie!”
“Oh, well, Ivan is always stuffing his face with macarons at my estate, I’m sure he’d take pleasure in you honing your abilities. And how do you feel about God and man? See, Ivan’s read me some of his articles. He always has a little grin about them, a little bit of pride that he can’t help hiding. Ivan never lets anyone else get a word in.” Katerina smiled deviously. “For example, I can’t help but disagree with the assumption that religion is inherently negative. Really, religion can be a retreat. Especially mysticism, fantasy and folklore. Paganism, that’s all fascinating. If we spent as much time trying to understand nature as we did having these debates, why, maybe all of Vanka’s questions would be answered by now.”
Pavel blinked in surprise, picking a whistling kettle off the stove. “I think God is relative to the individual. Perhaps you believe in many higher powers, or just one, or none, but no one can ever be a monolith. Religion shouldn’t be monolithic, it should be varied among every individual… I suppose, like you said.”
“It’s far too late for this bunk,” Ivan snapped. “Please, Smerdyakov, I don’t want any tea. You’ve already done enough.” He whirled to face Katya. “I’ll see you upstairs.”
“Alright,” she replied, hands folded on her chest.
Ivan huffed and departed up the stairs, his light footsteps passing over the creaking floorboards. Pavel lifted his head up, listening as he made his way over to his room. He could have sworn that he stopped at Alyosha’s room before arriving at his, but Katya was quick to continue.
“He has quite a temper, doesn’t he? He does try to hide it.”
Pavel cocked his head, pouring the tea into a trio of small porcelain cups. Ivan’s would sit untouched for the time being, but Katya and Pavel both picked up their cups and saucers.
Katerina tilted her head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I appreciate the effort he makes. Truly, Ivan is a fine gentleman, though I think he prefers to avoid confronting his passion and his cruelty.”
“He has always been a welcome presence in my life.”
In response, Katerina looked at him with thinly-veiled sympathy. Pavel could only imagine what things Ivan said to her about him. He preferred not to. Now, he looked at Katya’s fine face. He hadn’t expected such compassion, such grace. Once he had overheard Fyodor Pavlovich talking about her:
“That woman, wicked Katerina… She’s a regular Lilith. You know, her mother was crazy too! These women and their hysterics.”
Katya didn’t appear hysterical to him. Katya seemed like a compassionate young woman, someone he’d like to call a sister. Pavel studied her yet again, her frail frame, her curled fingers, her powder blue dress. Or perhaps she was hysterical. Perhaps, like Ivan, she was temperamental and cruel, and had only learned to hide it through practice. Perhaps.
Ivan had once mentioned the idea of the woman in the attic. While abroad, he had read an interesting little autobiography about a Jane Eyre, a governess who stumbles upon her rich employer’s mad wife in the attic of his luxurious home. He hadn’t picked it up, but it made Pavel wonder. Again he peered at Katya curiously as she sipped her tea.
“You seem like a fine fellow, Pavel Fyodorovich. I won’t disgrace you and subscribe to your cruel naming. You deserve much better, I’m sure… or maybe you’re as wretched as Ivan says. But I’m not one to judge anyone so cruelly, I’m no God. And morality is subjective, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Pavel muttered. He turned to the pot on the stove, then back to Katya. “Would you like to sample the caramel?”
“Certainly.”
Pavel searched in the drawer for a spoon, picking out an old, engraved little tablespoon that was obscured beneath the silverware. Katya tilted the pot, lifted the spoon to her mouth, and sampled. “Excellent. It appears you have excellent technique. You would be at home among those chefs in Paris.”
Pavel politely bowed his head. Katya set the spoon down on the counter, and a smile tickled her lips. “I ought to catch up with my Vanka.” She swiveled around, searching for the staircase. “But I am very pleased to have at last made your acquaintance, Pavel Fyodorovich.”
He watched the powder blue bustle disappear up the stairs and around the corner with wide eyes. The caramel still sat on the stove, the lingering saccharine smell still floating in the air.