The Concubine's Secret

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘Hush, rest now. I’ll cook us some fish and we can get some food into you at last. You’ve not eaten for weeks.’

  ‘Weeks?’

  ‘Da.’ He stood up.

  ‘Weeks?’

  ‘Da. I managed to get some water into you and a little soup but nothing more.’

  ‘Weeks?’ The word had stuck in Alexei’s mind.

  ‘Yes, nearly three weeks it’s been. You’ve had a fever. Thought I’d lost you more than once.’ He thumped a hand on the table. ‘But you must be made of good strong oak like my Red Maiden here.’ He laughed.

  The noise of it set up a vibration in Alexei’s head and he closed his eyes to stop his brains spilling out.

  The smell of grilled fish permeated the dusty cabin, ousting even the stink of the kerosene. They ate slowly and in companionable silence, the job of manoeuvring a fork to his mouth taking all of Alexei’s concentration. Konstantin left him to it but when they had finished and coffee was once more in his hands, Alexei rested back and scrutinised his host.

  ‘Why did you take care of me?’

  ‘What was I meant to do? Chuck you back in the river like a poisoned fish?’

  Alexei smiled. The muscles of his cheek felt stiff, made of cardboard. ‘Some would have. Under Stalin’s system of informers, people have become afraid of strangers.’

  Konstantin returned the smile. ‘I was glad of the company.’ ‘Where are we now?’

  ‘Downriver.’

  ‘South of Felanka, you mean?’

  ‘Da.’

  ‘How long have we been travelling?’

  ‘Ever since I picked you up.’

  ‘Three weeks. Chyort!’

  ‘Wrong direction for you?’

  ‘Yes. I have to return to Felanka.’

  Konstantin looked away and there was a moment of awkwardness that made Alexei feel ungrateful. To cover it, the boatman reached into a drawer under the table top and pulled out a small knife and a piece of wood, then proceeded to whittle away at it, his blond eyebrows knit in concentration.

  ‘What’s in Felanka that is so important?’

  ‘Some business I have to attend to.’

  His gaze lifted to Alexei. ‘Girl business, you mean?’

  ‘Not that kind of girl business. It’s my sister. She’s in Felanka.’

  ‘Ah, my friend, then there’s no rush. A sister can wait.’

  Can you, Lydia? Can you wait?

  Lydia was forced to wait. Despite her constant daily hammering on the station master’s hatch, it was two weeks before she was allocated a seat on a return train to Felanka. What surprised her was how easily she filled the days. She expected herself to be pacing the pavements with impatience, frantic and fretting, but no, it wasn’t like that. She sat quietly. On a station platform, in a park, in a hotel room.

  She taught herself stillness.

  When finally the train heaved itself into the station the compartment was full, but this time with more women than men. Conversations concentrated on the lack of goods in the shops despite rationing, and the length of the bread queues. Before boarding, Lydia had seen a chain of prisoners loaded at the last minute into the baggage van, but so carefully guarded that she had no chance to get anywhere near them. Their heads were already shaven against lice. That came as a shock. The idea of Papa without his flowing fiery locks. The image just wouldn’t stay inside her head. She became aware of a young girl next to her, small and slight. She was travelling alone, much the same age as Lydia herself, but her fragility made her seem younger. Lydia took out a cone of sunflower seeds that Elena had thrust into her bag, and offered it.

  ‘Hungry?’ she asked the girl.

  ‘Da.’ She took a handful. Her face was thin and nervous. ‘Spasibo.’

  ‘Travelling far?’

  ‘To Moscow.’

  ‘That’s a long journey. But it must be exciting for you.’

  ‘Yes, you see, I won a prize. I was the fastest maker of copper pots in my factory. So I am to receive a medal.’

  Lydia blinked. ‘That happens?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Workers are always rewarded for dedication. Sometimes even by Stalin himself.’ Her young eyes gleamed with anticipation. ‘It’s to be awarded in a big ceremony in the Hall of Heroes.’

  ‘Congratulations. You and your family must be very proud.’

  ‘We are . . . but I’m told Moscow is dangerous.’

  Lydia looked at her with interest. Didn’t the girl know that in Stalin’s Russia, everywhere was dangerous?

  ‘In what way do you mean?’ she asked.

  The girl leaned closer, eyes wide. ‘The city is riddled with criminals.’

  Lydia laughed, she couldn’t help it. ‘Every city is riddled with criminals, no matter where you go. It’s always the same.’ She noticed that a man in workman’s clothes further along the bench seat was openly listening to her. She added quickly, ‘But I know Comrade Lenin has taught us all to share what we have, even our apartments. Crime is no longer necessary. Not like it was under the bourgeois system of exploitation.’

  She almost smiled. Her brother would be proud of her. You see, Alexei, I’m learning. Really I am.

  The girl said nothing, just chewed on the seeds, then glanced sideways at Lydia from behind her thin blonde hair. ‘They are well known,’ she murmured. ‘With tattoos. A criminal fraternity. The vory v zakone, they’re called.’ She lowered her voice to a faint whisper. ‘That’s why I’m nervous of going to Moscow.’

  A criminal fraternity? Tattoos?

  No. Not again. Not China all over again. Lydia’s pulse thudded in her throat. Thank God she wasn’t heading for Moscow.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be well cared for,’ she smiled reassuringly and patted the girl’s arm. ‘Someone as special as you will be kept safe.’

  The look of relief on the thin face was worth the lie.

  The rain had stopped and the landscape stretched away into the mist, dismal and damp. Everything looked different. How would she know when the train was close to the Work Zone? There was nothing here that marked out one featureless place from another, and now that the clouds had descended so low it was impossible to see where the forest had been levelled. This mist had swallowed all signs, a grey thief that had stolen her hopes.

  Lydia was standing at the carriage window, fingers wiping away the moisture of her breath on the glass. The Work Zone had to be here, somewhere here, she was sure. She peered out intently, searching for even a hint of the matchstick watchtowers, but all she saw was a dead blanket of low cloud that, as the train raced past, curled and swayed like a drunk unsteady on his feet. The red handkerchiefs, the bright scarlet birds? Would they be visible? But no. Nothing broke the colourless monotony. She rested her forehead against the glass, felt the vibrations rattle through her brain.

  She closed her eyes, remembering Chang’s words: ‘You must focus, my love, draw the parts together into a whole. Then you will be strong.’

  Focus.

  She opened her eyes, forgot the mist and the forest, and focused on the stretch of rocky ground nearest the track. For the next twenty-five minutes she didn’t let her gaze stray, but kept it riveted on the few metres of terrain that bordered the rail as the engine thundered through the damp air. Slowly she felt her mind change. It grew lighter. The weight of other thoughts and fears slid away until all that existed was the rock and the earth speeding past. They threaded dark lines through her mind.

  Then it was there. The sign.

  She blinked and it was gone. But she’d seen it and didn’t need to see it again. Rocks had been placed in a pattern, an arrangement of stone that spelled out a word and a number. The word was Nyet. The number was 1908.

  Nyet. 1908.

  Lydia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She had no idea what it meant.

  17

  Alexei woke in total darkness. The timbers creaked around him and he could hear the slap of the waves on the bow.

  ‘Konstantin!’
r />   He heard movement in the cabin.

  ‘What is it, my friend? Wait while I strike a match.’

  A flame flared and a lamp hissed. In the sudden gleam of yellow light Alexei focused on the jumble of blankets on the floor and realised it was Konstantin’s own bed he had usurped. The boatman was naked, his long back well muscled, blond curls on his thighs. He turned and studied Alexei, unabashed by his own nakedness, his blue eyes still heavy with sleep.

  ‘What is it, Alexei? A nightmare?’

  ‘No. Where is my moneybelt, Konstantin?’

  The long eyelashes blinked. ‘Moneybelt? What moneybelt?’

  ‘I was wearing one when—’

  ‘My friend, I am no thief.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you.’

  ‘That’s what it sounds like to me.’ He spread his broad hands as if to show there was nothing hiding in them. ‘When I dragged you out of the water, you were in a mess. Bleeding over everything, your clothes cut and torn, but there was definitely no moneybelt.’ He chuckled softly. ‘Do you think I wouldn’t have noticed?’

  Alexei collapsed back on the pillow and closed his eyes. ‘I apologise, Konstantin. Please go back to sleep.’

  Immediately the light went out. Alexei heard his companion’s bare feet pad across the boards, felt a hand touch his hair in the darkness and slide gently down to brush the skin of his neck.

  ‘How old are you, Alexei?’ Konstantin’s voice was a whisper.

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘So young. And so . . . untouchable.’

  A silence, black and sticky as pitch, dropped into the gap between the two men. Alexei rolled on to his side, turning his back on the boatman, so that the hand fell away. ‘Goodnight, comrade. Dobri nochi, tovarishch.’

  Quietly the footsteps padded away.

  Everything was gone. The money, the jewels, all that he had secreted away from prying eyes. How they must have laughed at his naivety.

  Alexei felt bile rise in his throat because he knew it wasn’t his naivety that had caused this. It was his own blind arrogance. He’d known what to expect, what Mikhail Vushnev was likely to try on that freezing cold night on the bridge. But he had been so confident that he could handle whatever a dumb camp apparatchik thought up and still extract the information he needed.

  How wrong could he be? How unforgivable was the mistake?

  He forced his eyes closed. But the images remained there under his eyelids, etched sharper than acid into his brain. Everything of real value was gone. Everything.

  Beads of sunlight threaded their way through a line of holes in the curtain that hung across the small cabin porthole. Bright tears of regret. That’s what they looked like to Alexei when he opened his eyes and saw them spilling over his blanket and on to the table. The sun had scarcely climbed above the eastern horizon, the dawn light still drifting lazily down the surface of the river, in no hurry to get anywhere.

  But I am. In a hurry to get back to Felanka.

  Alexei threw off the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His head threatened to split wide open when he pushed himself to his feet and nausea hit. Stale, fevered breath escaped from his lungs in a rush. He swore. Swaying dangerously he fought to catch his breath, and that was when he saw Konstantin watching him in silence from his nest of blankets on the floor.

  ‘You’re weak as a kitten,’ the boatman said. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Time to leave.’

  ‘Nyet.’ It came out as a soft moan. ‘Not yet. You are not well enough.’

  ‘I have to go.’

  Alexei straightened up. The boards were cold under his feet and he looked around the cabin for his boots. They were by a bucket in a corner and had been polished. He shuffled over, picked them up and put them on. The effort left him trembling. Konstantin said nothing.

  ‘My clothes?’ Alexei asked.

  ‘I told you, they were torn to rags so I threw them away. You can keep my old ones that you’re wearing and your coat is in that cupboard.’

  Alexei retrieved it. The heavy material had one long cut down the front that had been meticulously mended.

  ‘How can I thank you?’

  Konstantin wrapped himself tightly in his blankets. ‘There’s bread and some cold pork in the—’

  ‘No. But thank you. You’ve done more than enough for me already.’

  ‘I have no money to offer you.’

  ‘A knife is all I need.’

  A brief nod of the head towards a cupboard. Alexei chose the sharpest and thinnest blade, then approached his rescuer and held out his hand in farewell.

  ‘Thank you, Konstantin. Spasibo. You have been a true friend.’ He felt an urge to say more than just spasibo. ‘I am more grateful than I can say for what . . .’

  ‘Not grateful enough, it seems.’ The blue eyes closed. ‘Just go.’

  Alexei bent down, squeezed his shoulder and left.

  Popkov swore at her. It came as a shock to Lydia.

  He started cursing the moment she stepped off the train in Felanka. She hurried down the icy platform towards him but he just stood there without moving, swearing at her in his booming voice. He loomed big and bulky, a bear on its hind legs, so black-eyed and dangerous that other passengers on the station platform swerved to avoid him. His hat was missing so that his greasy curls launched out at angry angles, and his black eyepatch lay askew where he’d been picking at it.

  How many times had he waited here for her?

  How many trains had he met?

  How many hours had he wasted in the snow and the rain?

  ‘Liev!’ she called out and started to run, her coat catching at her legs.

  The Cossack bunched up his massive eyebrows and scowled harder at her, looking ready to kill something, and as she drew near she heard his hot words clearly in the chill air.

  ‘Fuck you, suka! Where have you been? Why the devil did you leave without me? Why? You stupid little chit, you could be lying in fucking shit in a gutter somewhere by now or—’

  ‘Hush,’ she murmured and stood still in front of him. ‘Hush.’ She looked up into his face with a wide, affectionate smile.

  His black eye glittered at her. ‘Damn you,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘I probably will.’

  ‘You stupid little fool.’ His big paw landed on her shoulder, crushing it.

  He’d never sworn at her before. Never. That’s how bad it was for him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her words almost lost in the great sigh of the steam engine as it belched out smoke.

  She stood close to him. Slid her arms around his chest as far as they would go and laid her cheek on his stinking coat. The bristles of his beard prickled her forehead as he kissed the top of her head. His huge arms wrapped around her, grinding her slender frame against his ribs till she couldn’t breathe. She could hear him swallow, over and over again.

  ‘Put him down,’ a woman’s voice chuckled just behind Lydia. ‘Stop mauling him. That Cossack is mine.’

  It was Elena.

  Alexei pushed the tip of his knife into the bottom of his boot and twisted. Nothing happened.

  Chyort! He was too damn weak even to flick the heel off a shoe. He dropped the knife and sank down with relief on the rain-soaked grass, indifferent to the chill and the wet creeping through his coat. Since leaving the boat he’d walked north through the flatlands, following the line of the river, forcing his legs to march hour after hour. Only now did he allow himself to collapse on to the riverbank.

  He was drenched in sweat, despite the bitter wind that skidded off the surface of the water. Flecks of ice in the air nicked at his skin like minuscule ice picks. His mouth was dry as sand and his hands shaking. Up ahead appeared a village, its wooden cottages breathing out coils of smoke from metal chimney pipes, and the smell of cooked meat swirled on the wind. He needed money. Without it he wasn’t going to get far, which was why he was no
w hacking at his boot in an attempt to remove the heel.

  Under a steel grey sky he rested his cheek on the grass to cool the fire that was raging under his skin. Oh Lydia. Damn it, just wait. Be patient. I’m coming back, I promise. He felt again the sudden rush of shame. He’d let her down. He forced himself upright and started in with the knife once more. He’d lost the moneybelt to that Felanka bastard, but safe inside the heel of each boot lay a neat roll of white rouble notes. Not much maybe, but enough to get him back to Felanka and to . . .

  The heel popped off, hanging on by just one cobbler’s pin. Inside the gap he had specially created lay nothing. It was empty. Alexei stared at it. Shook the boot ferociously as if the money would materialise from some other hole. He snatched up the other boot and with one angry jab jerked the heel on to the grass. Empty. He didn’t even bother to shake it this time.

  Cold despair slid into his gut. He tried to think straight. The coat? He twisted out of it and sliced the knife into the hem, into the collar, into the cuffs. All empty. All gone. No roubles, no silver dollars. No hope of buying his father’s freedom.

  He bent to one side and vomited last night’s fish on to the grass.

  ‘Oh Konstantin, you bastard, you thieving fucking bastard. You . . .’

  Rage robbed him of words. He knew it was over. He lifted the knife. Without hesitation he cut through the material of his trousers and stabbed the blade into the spot high on his thigh where there was already a rough scar. A flow of blood spilled down over the pale muscle to form a pool on the grass. Using the knife tip he extracted something small and hard, covered in blood, from within the flesh and put it into his mouth. When he spat it out on to his palm, it was clean. A diamond. Too small to be worth much. Even less in a dog-shit place like this. But hopefully enough to get him to Felanka.

  It was the last. There was nothing left after this.

  He cut a strip off the bandage on his side and knotted it tightly round his thigh. Blood still oozed, but Alexei ignored it. He welcomed the pain in the wound at each step. It deadened that other pain, the one in his chest, the one that was trying to suffocate him as he limped into the village.