Sofia watched her and noted the teacher’s unease. Was it the desk? Had she seen something she shouldn’t?
“In that case, I’ll speak to Pokrovsky,” Sofia said as she moved toward the door. “Thank you for your time, comrade.”
They smiled at each other. Enough had been said.
THE smithy looked like the devil’s workshop. Great sparks leaped and twisted through the air that rang with the thunder of hammer blows on metal. As Sofia entered the dim interior she felt her bones vibrate and her teeth ache with it, but the blacksmith was grinning from ear to ear, relishing every swing of his massive hammer like Thor himself. He was working on a thick iron pole that glowed scarlet at one end where it was being flattened to a point.
“Comrade Pokrovsky,” she called out. She squeezed it in between blows.
He paused midswing, hammer head poised high above his shoulder in a position that would have sent most people toppling over backwards. The smith was wearing a thick leather apron over a sleeveless tunic, and his naked shaven scalp glistened with sweat. The sight of him made Sofia smile. Here was a man who loved his work. Now that the reverberations had stopped, she realized he was singing an old army marching song and wielding his hammer to its rhythm.
He lowered it easily onto the anvil and stared at Sofia with surprise. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He wiped the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his beefy hand. His teeth were as big as the rest of him, but so white that Sofia wondered if they might be false.
“Comrade Lishnikova suggested I speak with you.”
His dark eyes sparked with interest. “About last night?”
“No. About a hut.”
The change in him was instant and the easy manner vanished. “What hut?”
“A hut I found up in the forest.” She added cautiously, “In a clearing a few versts northwest of here. I was—”
“Stay away from huts, comrade.” He stepped toward her, his tree-trunk arms swinging loose. “I’m warning you.”
“Warning me of what?”
“Of not sticking your nose in places that—”
“Comrade Pokrovsky, I already know what’s in that hut and who goes there.”
He dragged air noisily through his teeth and his barrel chest swelled. She took a step, away from him. His intimidating presence acted like a physical pressure on her, even though he hadn’t actually touched her.
“Stay away from the hut,” he growled.
“Chairman Fomenko goes up there to—”
“Stay away from our Comrade Chairman.”
“I thought you were trying to help this village, part of Rafik’s circle. So why . . . ?”
Riddled with informers eager to earn a cheap rouble. Elizaveta’s words slid like slime into her mind, and she felt suddenly sick with disappointment as she realized what this man was up to.
“You’re working for both sides, aren’t you, Comrade Pokrovsky?”
He moved so close she had to tip her head right back to look him in the eyes, and this time she didn’t step away.
“Leave Fomenko alone,” he warned.
“Why? What is he to you?”
He lowered his bull neck till his eyes were on a level with hers. The sparks were there inside them now. “Leave Fomenko alone. Because I say so.”
She spun on her heel and strode out of the forge.
COMRADE Morozova, shouldn’t you be out with your brigade in the fields?”
Sofia would have ignored him if she could, but Aleksei Fomenko and his lean-limbed hound had stepped right into her path before she was aware of them. Her mind was churning with fears about what Pokrovsky would say to his rouble paymasters, and all she wanted was to reach Mikhil’s izba as quickly as possible. Now this rebuke. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the chairman, so she stared at the gentle brown eyes of his dog.
“Did you tell them?” she demanded.
“Tell who?”
“Tell the interrogators to release Comrade Pashin.”
He laughed, a harsh bark that could almost have come from the dog. “Don’t be absurd, comrade. I don’t have that kind of power.”
She looked up at him for the first time. His jaw was set in a stern line, but today his eyes were as gentle as his dog’s. She’d learned not to trust gentle eyes.
“Don’t you?” she asked.
“No.”
“I see.”
She did see. She saw that Rafik’s binding together of Tivil’s strengths last night produced some kind of force. Unless Fomenko was lying to her, and he was the one who had organized Mikhail’s release. But why would he do that?
His gaze fixed on her, and the strong sunlight bleached the creases from his skin, so that for a moment his face looked as smooth as that of a boy. Sofia could picture him, rifle in his hand, the boy who shot Anna’s father.
“Don’t miss your shift in the fields,” he reminded her.
She shook her head and walked on.
SHE slipped into the bedroom where Mikhail was sleeping. One arm was thrown out in a wide gesture of abandon as if letting go in his sleep of what he couldn’t release when awake. Sofia moved silently to the bed. There were signs of his having been up and about: an empty cup by the bed and his shirt hanging on the rack of hooks in the corner instead of thrown on the floor when she slid it from his shoulders last night.
She stood there quietly and studied him, watched him breathe: the slow even rhythm, the soft tiny movements of his lips. She absorbed every detail of him, not just into her mind but into her body, deep into her blood and her bones: the fineness of him, the line of his cheekbone, the thick fan of his dark lashes, even the black and swollen bruise around his eye. His chin was dark with stubble that she longed to kiss. She imagined him laughing in the snow, building a sleigh of ice. Skating on the lake and smiling with contentment as he roasted potatoes on the fire. All these things she knew he’d done, and many more when he was Vasily. But then he stuck a knife in the throat of his father’s killer and Vasily died. Mikhail was born. It made no difference to her.
Vasily.
Mikhail.
She loved them both. Softly, so as not to break the rhythm of his dreams, Sofia dropped her clothes to the floor and slid in beside him between the sheets. His naked body smelled warm and musky. Her lips touched his skin. She curled her body around his and lay like that for an hour, maybe two, and when eventually his hand found her in his sleep, she smiled. Slowly, without opening his eyes, he started to caress her breasts till a moan crept from between her lips and she heard his breath quicken.
“Ssh,” she whispered, “you need sleep.”
“No, I need you.”
He opened his eyes and grinned at her on the pillow. Gently she kissed his split lip and drew it into her own mouth, where her tongue soothed it. His groan vibrated through her own lungs, and together they started to explore each other’s bodies once more. It was leisurely this time as their hands moved or lingered, and teased desire to breaking point until he was inside her.
And suddenly the terrible ache and the fear left Sofia. The ache of loving. The fear of losing. There was just this, just him, just her. Together.
FORTY-NINE
I’VE been waiting for you.”
Rafik was seated at the table in his izba, his hands flat on its rough planks. He was wearing the white band around his head, stark against his thick black hair, and a soft white shirt with loose sleeves and a strange geometric design picked out in intricate white embroidery on the front of it. He indicated the two chairs opposite him.
Sofia and Mikhail sat down. Sofia’s eyes focused immediately on the white stone that lay on the surface of the table.
“Sofia,” Rafik said and smiled at her. “It is time for you to know more. But first”—his gaze shifted to Mikhail—“what is it you want of me, Comrade Pashin?”
Mikhail gave the stone no more than a cursory glance, but he draped a protective arm along the back of Sofia’s chair. “Rafik,” he said, “ye
sterday I was incarcerated in a filthy cell looking at a future in a labor camp at best. Today I am here in Tivil, a free man.” He leaned forward, searching the gypsy’s face. “It’s a miracle, and I don’t believe in miracles.”
“No, it’s not a miracle. You were saved by Sofia.”
Mikhail thumped a hand on the table, making the stone leap from its place. Rafik flinched but didn’t touch it.
“Rafik, you say Sofia saved me, but she claims that you did. I need to know what is going on here. People have always whispered that you have strange mystic powers, but I dismissed it as village tittle-tattle, the fantasies of idle minds, but now . . .” He drew a deep breath, and Sofia could see a pulse beating below his ear.
“Mikhail,” Rafik said in a soothing tone, “I’m going to tell you a history.” With his words, the thoughts in Sofia’s head seemed to grow heavy. “For centuries,” he continued, “generations of my family were advisers and astronomers to the kings of Persia. Their knowledge and intimacy with the spirits made them a force that guided one of the greatest empires in history through times of war and times of peace. But nothing”—he brushed a finger over the stone and eased it back into its position—“nothing lasts forever—not even Communism.”
He frowned, drawing his heavy black brows together. “My ancestors were driven from their land of honey and fled throughout the known world, some escaping to Europe, others to India and farther into the Orient, as the empire crumbled.”
Sofia closed her eyes for a moment. “I feel it,” she murmured.
Mikhail’s solemn gaze scrutinized her face, and then he passed a hand in a gentle caress over her forehead and through the silky threads of her white-blond hair.
“What does she mean?”
Rafik took Sofia’s hands between his own, palms together as in prayer.
“She is like me,” he said.
“She’s not a gypsy.”
“No. I am the seventh son of a seventh son, going back through generations of seventh sons all the way to Persia. That’s where my power comes from, passed on in a mystic connection of blood. Sofia is the same.”
“What do you mean? Is she the daughter of a seventh son?”
“No. She is the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, going back through generations. Because her mother died when Sofia was so young, she never learned from her mother what she should have been told about the power that is centered in her, drawn from the strength and the knowledge of others before her.” He pressed Sofia’s hands tight together. “My will is strong, and so is hers. But together,” Rafik said, his black eyes searching hers, “we are stronger.”
“But my father was a priest of the Russian Orthodox church,” she pointed out. “Surely his faith would have clashed with my mother’s . . . if what you say is true.”
“Faiths can work together. The bond they create can be a powerful force.”
She nodded. “Have you ever spoken to Priest Logvinov here in Tivil? About working together?”
“He’s not ready. Until he is, I protect him.”
Mikhail leaned forward, intent on Rafik. “That explains why the crazy fool still has his life in one piece. I’ve never been able to understand why he wasn’t shot or exiled long ago by the authorities. He takes risks, big risks.”
Rafik looked at Mikhail. “So do you.”
Mikhail’s mouth closed into a hard line and he sat back in his chair, eyes narrowed. “What is it you know, Rafik?”
“I know you bring a saddlebag of food home from your factory canteen each day for the Tushkov family.”
Mikhail said firmly, “That would be illegal. The canteen food is meant for the Levitsky workers only.”
“Please be careful, my love,” Sofia whispered.
A shout in the street shattered the moment. They heard the sound of boots pounding outside, the growl of a truck engine revving impatiently. Children were bounding like hares up from the school; voices were raised in dispute, and Rafik and Mikhail hurried to the door. Only Sofia remained where she was. She was staring at the white pebble. She touched it, and it was ice cold.
“Sofia,” Rafik demanded harshly behind her. “What have you done?”
ALEKSEI Fomenko, chairman of the Red Arrow kolkhoz, stood in the grip of two burly soldiers outside his house, and around them swarmed the kolkhozniki. News traveled fast in the fields.
Sofia forced herself to watch. The way the uniformed soldiers manhandled him as though he were dirt. The erect manner with which he carried himself in his check shirt and work trousers as though proud of them, the straight back, the accusing gray eyes that swept the crowd. The black Russian soil ingrained in the leather of his boots. At his feet lay three sacks, each one packed with secret plunder.
“Hoarder!”
"Thief !”
“Filthy scum!”
“You disgusting hypocrite, after all the food you took from us . . .”
“Liar! All the time you were stealing for yourself.”
“Bastard!”
A stone flew from a woman’s hand and then another that hit its target. Sofia could see the blood trickle along Fomenko’s scalp. She made herself watch, but where was the sense of satisfaction she had expected? Why wasn’t she enjoying the gloating and the triumph? This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? This was what she’d sworn to do. Why did revenge taste so sour?
WE were all shocked,” Mikhail said, and he shook his head, his wet hair scattering water. "I’d never have believed it of Fomenko.”
Sofia was very quiet.
Mikhail lifted another ladle of water out of the enamel jug and tipped it over the hot stones until steam rose in a great hiss and he almost lost sight of her. They were in his banya, the bath hut at the back of his yard. It was a small dark building constructed of wood with a slatted bench to sit on, a stove, and one tiny window high up to let in a sliver of light. In the hot moist air they had scraped each other’s skin in turn with the veniki, the birch twigs, and in the gloom she had massaged oils into the cuts and bruises that crisscrossed his body, kissing each one with such tenderness that he could barely keep from scooping her into his arms.
But she wouldn’t let him. All afternoon she’d been subdued. She’d walked away from Rafik after Fomenko’s arrest, but instead of being annoyed the gypsy had seized Mikhail’s arm.
“Go to her, Mikhail. Don’t leave her side.”
Mikhail had felt a thin trickle of fear.
“What is it? Is she in danger?”
“I see dark shadows gathering around her and . . .” He stopped.
“And what?”
Rafik rubbed his eyes hard. “Just stay at her side.”
When Mikhail suggested the banya to Sofia, it had elicited her glorious smile and her blue eyes had lit up with delight.
“As long as I get to clean you and you get to clean me,” she’d teased.
“Agreed.”
For a while it had worked. He’d lit the stove and ladled the water over the heated stones until the steam opened every pore in their bodies. Their muscles relaxed to the point that their flesh seemed to melt into each other’s. Mikhail longed to feed her thick greasy morsels of fat and cheese, to watch soft flesh grow over the hard angles of her bones, to see her small undernourished breasts blossom like sweet-smelling flowers. As they stood entwined together, his hands caressed her slender buttocks and he trailed kisses along the delicate line of her shoulder.
“Sofia, Sofia,” he whispered over and over.
She had changed everything for him, transformed his world to something clean and worthwhile. This woman was so different from any other he’d known. But when he placed her on the steam-hazed bench, she put a finger to his lips and shook her head.
“Sofia, what is it, my love?”
She took a deep breath, quivering under his touch, but said firmly, “I want us to talk.”
“To talk? Is that all? You frightened me for a moment with your coolness.” He laughed and sat on the bench beside her. He
let just his arm touch hers, no more. “So what is it you want to talk about?”
“I want to talk about . . . the Dyuzheyevs.”
He stopped breathing.
“You know the name?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“When I asked before, you claimed you didn’t.”
“I lied.”
“Why would you lie about it?”
“Because . . . oh Sofia, I don’t want to think back to those times. They’re . . . over, locked in the past. Nothing can change what happened back then.”
In the silence that followed in the damp hut, Mikhail had a sudden sense of things slipping away. Just the same as that day so long ago in the snow when his life slipped out of his icy fingers. Not this time, not again, he refused to let it happen again. He stood up quickly and faced her, and was shocked to see that despite the heat, her skin was bone white.
“Why are you doing this, Sofia? What are you trying to get out of me? Yes, I knew the Dyuzheyevs. Yes, I saw them die. A day etched into my brain in every detail, however hard I try to forget it. So I’ve answered you; now leave it, my love, leave it alone. Whatever your connection is with that dreadful day, don’t drag it in here.”
He dropped to his knees on the wooden floor in front of her. The mound of blond curls at the base of her stomach was barely a breath away, but he gazed only at her blue eyes that looked so wretched.
“Sofia,” he whispered, “my Sofia. Don’t do this.”
“I must.”
He sat back on his heels and stared up at her.
“I love you, Sofia.”
“I love you, Mikhail.” Her eyes shimmered in the narrow shaft of light.
He gently brushed a thread of moisture from her lip. “Very well, my sweetest, what is it you want?”
She didn’t speak. Her throat attempted to swallow but failed, and he waited. Only when she dragged her eyes away from his face toward the small square of daylight outside did the words come.
“Anna Fedorina is still alive.”
THEY were dressed and in the house. Mikhail had lit a cigarette but had forgotten it as it burned fitfully in his fingers. He was angry, not with Sofia, but with himself. Something that had happened sixteen years ago should not still have this power over him. They’d said little more after Sofia’s announcement.
The Red Scarf Page 37
