Alexei walked its streets in the dark, smoking the first of his cigarettes. He inhaled slowly, relishing the taste of it. It was his first cigarette in more than a month. The stale overheated atmosphere and the fleas at the hostel had eventually driven him out for some clear night air, and despite one cold foot in his galoshes he was enjoying familiarizing himself with the city.
Moscow’s street system was made up of a series of concentric circles at the heart of which crouched the Kremlin, like a red spider with a vicious, poisonous bite. The Arbat was the prosperous area where upmarket cafes, well-stocked shops, lice-free cinemas, and spacious apartments could fool a person into thinking there was no such thing as rationing or empty shelves or shirts being traded in street markets for half a loaf of bread. Streetlights gave the main roads an aura of civilized safety, though the sidewalks were often narrow and the mounds of ice against the walls so thick that at times Alexei was forced to pick his way along the road instead. But he would turn a corner and find himself in what felt more like a village than a great capital city. In these districts the roads were unpaved and boasted no streetlamps, just old-fashioned buildings with wooden front steps and outhouses.
There were still lights in the windows of one or two of the shabby taverns, but his pockets were empty. He breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the city, listening to the murmur of its heart. Somewhere here was Lydia. Somewhere here was Jens Friis. Now all he had to do was find them.
THE MAN AHEAD OF HIM STUMBLED. ALEXEI WAS THREADING his way back toward the Krasnoselskaya district and the fleas, the night air like needles in his lungs it was so cold, when he saw the figure step out of a side street, swaying slightly. A night on the vodka, that was obvious.
The road was unlit here, but a half moon had climbed sluggishly into the sky and was shedding just enough of its liquid gleam to enable Alexei to make out that the drunk was fat and that the dingy street was otherwise empty. The packed snow and ice crunched like broken glass under their feet, but the man in front seemed unaware of Alexei’s presence behind him. He stumbled again, let out a groan loud enough for Alexei to catch it, and sank to his knees. Oh Christ, drunks were always trouble. And right now Alexei had more than enough of his own already. But he couldn’t leave the poor bastard to freeze to death on the sidewalk. He covered the distance between them in a few strides.
“Comrade?”
He rested his hand on the man’s shoulder, steadying the swaying figure, preventing it from collapsing face first onto the ice. His fingers sank into a thick damp pelt and he realized the man’s apparent bulk was caused by an immense fur coat with its broad collar rolled up around his ears.
“Comrade,” Alexei said again, “you need to sleep it off somewhere warm.”
A muttering, slow and incoherent, slid from unresponsive lips.
Mudak! Shit! Alexei was impatient to get this over with. He put his shoulder under the man’s arm and braced himself to take the weight. “Come on, on your feet.”
The fur coat’s only response was to lean heavily on Alexei, breathing hard, but the legs underneath didn’t move. His chin lay on his chest, his eyes tight shut.
“You must move, comrade, or you’ll freeze.”
Still nothing. Every night a dozen drunks froze to death in the gutters of Moscow. The heavy breathing uncoiled like white silk into the air and his hand gripped Alexei’s arm, tightening in spasms. Alexei leaned closer, his face so near that he could smell a sickly odor rising from the fur pelt.
“What is it, comrade? Are you ill?”
A strange noise squeezed from the man’s throat like the whistle of a small bird. Shit! This wasn’t just a skinful of vodka. That whistle made the hair stand up on the back of Alexei’s neck. It was the sound Death makes when it comes calling. He’d heard it before, that high-pitched warning. He crouched quickly beside the man, his own heart beating like a hammer in his chest, peered intently at the puffy face and, taking the weight in his arms, lowered him with care on his back onto the sidewalk. His head was propped against Alexei’s own knees to keep it out of reach of the icy claws that were accustomed to wrapping around drunks the moment they hit the ground.
Inside the voluminous coat the man was at least as warm as it was possible to be on a cold Moscow night outdoors, but in the semidarkness the skin of his face looked grayer than the sidewalk under him. He had a fleshy face, full heavy lips, and a thick mustache that was neatly trimmed to curl down either side of his mouth. About fifty years old, Alexei guessed, but he looked more like a hundred and fifty right now. The ice was turning Alexei’s legs numb already and must be doing something similar to this man’s, but there was no one in the street to shout to. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave him and fetch help himself—something about that grip on his arm, the sense of need in it.
Think clearly. What was going on here? A heart attack? A stroke? A fit of some kind?
He checked the man’s mouth. The jaw was rigid but the tongue hadn’t rolled back, though the skin of his face was cold and clammy to touch. Oh Christ, don’t die on me. He quickly unfastened the man’s coat and rummaged through his jacket pockets. Cigar case, wallet, keys, handkerchief, a clip of papers, and—what he’d been searching for—a small pill box. It was round and warm from contact with its owner’s body. He flipped it open to reveal a clutch of white tablets. Damn it, they could be anything. Headache pills or indigestion remedies? He tipped one onto the palm of his hand and closed the box.
“Comrade.” He spoke loudly, as though the man were deaf. “Comrade, are these tablets what you need?”
The man made no response, just lay like a log against Alexei’s knees, eyes closed. Breath silent. Still the grip, weaker now, on Alexei’s sleeve. It was all that indicated he was alive. Alexei put a hand to the man’s jaw. Thank God it had gone slack. Gently he opened the thick lips and pushed a tablet under his tongue. The throat spasmed.
“Come on, don’t give up on me yet.”
Then he found himself doing something he didn’t expect. In the bitter cold on this dismal street, hunched on the sidewalk in the dark, he wrapped his arms around this stranger and held him close. As if his own arms were stronger than Death’s. He rested his cheek on the fur, felt its warmth trickle into his own flesh, listened to the short gasps as the man struggled to draw in air. He twinned his own breathing to match it, willing the heart to keep beating. And he waited.
“FRIEND?”
The word was a whisper. Barely that.
“So you’re not dead yet,” Alexei smiled.
“Not yet.”
“Can you move?”
“Soon.”
“Then we’ll wait.”
A murmur.
“What did you say? I couldn’t hear.” Alexei leaned closer, his ear by the man’s lips.
“Tablets.”
“I gave you one earlier. From your pill box.”
The heavy head nodded faintly. “Spasibo.”
“Is it your heart?”
“Da.”
“You need to get out of the cold. When you’re ready I’ll get you on your feet.”
“Soon.” His voice faded in and out. “Not yet.”
“I am in the Kalinin Hostel, but it’s too far away for you to walk. What you need is a hospital—and fast.”
“Nyet.”
The hand on his sleeve tightened, the fingers agitated.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Alexei said. “Calm down. We’ll sit here together like this as long as you want, waiting for the morning sun to shine and melt our bones.”
The man smiled, just a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth, but still a smile. For the first time Alexei believed he might live. He felt the body relax, heard the breathing quiet and was just considering whether it would be wise to ease himself away, so that he could bang on one of the doors farther up the street where there was a light in an upstairs window, when he heard the sound of a car engine. It was traveling slowly along the road, so slowly in fact the driver must b
e very nervous of ice.
“Comrade, a car is coming. I’ll stop it and—”
“Don’t let me go, friend.”
“I’ll be gone only a moment, I promise.”
“If you let go of me, I’ll slide into the pit.”
“What pit?”
“That black hole. There at my feet.”
“Friend, there’s no hole.”
“I can see it.”
“Nyet. Look at me.”
The man turned his head. His eyes were just slits in his fleshy face.
“There’s no hole,” Alexei repeated.
The fingers squeezed. “Swear it.”
“I swear it.”
The engine stopped. Alexei looked up. At the opposite curb, not one but two old black cars with long bonnets had pulled up. The doors slammed. Six men leapt out and raced across the road toward them. Without a word Alexei tightened one arm around his new comrade, ready to haul him to his feet whether he wanted to or not, but his other hand slid under the man’s coat to the holster that lay next to his chest and removed the gun. Quietly he released the safety catch and braced himself.
“Pakhan!”
A young man approached and saw the gun. From nowhere a snub-nosed revolver materialized in his own fist. He had thick black hair and the same mustache as the older man.
“Pakhan!” he shouted again. He stopped less than two meters away.
“Anatoly,” the sick man murmured, and, releasing his grip on Alexei, he stretched out his hand. “Don’t, Anatoly. This man helped me.”
“Your friend collapsed here in the street.” Alexei lowered the gun.
Men dressed in black swarmed around them, lean figures, each with eyes that did not invite familiarity. Between them they lifted the man and had him stowed inside one of the cars before Alexei could even bid him good-bye. He stood on the packed ice in the gutter and watched the cars slide away into the night like sharks. He felt the loss. It took him by surprise.
“Get well, tovarishch,” Alexei said as he pushed the gun into his waistband and set off back to the fleas.
Thirty-two
“GO TO BED, LYDIA.” IT WAS ELENA’S VOICE, SOFT from behind the curtain.
“Not yet.”
“There’s no point waiting.”
“There is.”
“He won’t come, girl. Not tonight. He can’t. He told you that he’s watched every moment.”
“You don’t know him.”
A low chuckle. “No, but I know men. Even the most devoted won’t walk into a lion’s mouth if it means no chance of walking out again. Give him time. You’re in too much of a hurry.”
“Chang An Lo is not like other men.”
“So you say.”
“It’s true, Elena.”
There was a sudden somnolent snort from Liev on the far side of the curtain. Their talk had woken him. “Fuck this. Go to sleep. The pair of you.”
“Shut up, you old goat,” Elena chuckled fondly, and the bedsprings creaked as she settled down beside her man.
Lydia leaned over from the chair she was sitting in beside the window and blew out the candle on the sill. But she remained there, staring out into darkness.
CHANG SAW THE LIGHT GO OUT. HE WAS IN THE COURTYARD below, a black shadow among black shadows. He had no way of knowing it was her window or her candle, but he was as certain of it as he was of his own heartbeat.
He knew she would be waiting, but he moved no closer. A bitter wind moaned under the roof tiles, the night spirits urging him on, trying to steal his senses, setting fire to his blood. Nevertheless he remained totally immobile on the courtyard cobbles, as bit by bit through the soles of his feet he felt a part of himself sneak away, lift like smoke on the wind and trail across the windowpane seeking cracks to whisper through.
Coming here was a risk, but he could not stay away. It was no hardship for him to slip out the hotel bathroom window, scale the drainpipe, and prowl like one of the city cats over the rooftops. No, that was only a small danger. The big danger was here, on her own doorstep. Did she really think she could become friendly with one of the Party elite, the man with the wolf eyes, and not pay the price? She would be watched. Every moment now. There would be someone to report on who she met, where she went, what she did, and, above all, who came to her living quarters. Day or night. But here in the shadows he was invisible.
My Lydia, my love. Take care.
HE RETURNED TO HIS HOTEL THE SAME WAY HE’D LEFT IT, THE roof tiles lethal in the dark under their coating of ice. As he swung in through the bathroom window once more, he listened but all was quiet. It was four o’clock on a winter’s morning and the hotel’s clients were slumbering contentedly under their thick quilts.
While still in the bathroom he changed into the nightwear he’d carried in the leather satchel on his back and pushed his shoes and clothes into it instead. He ran water from the tap to indicate to any hidden ears that the bathroom was in use, stilled his heart, and opened the door. The corridor was empty. On bare feet he padded silently to his room, slipped inside, and closed the door behind him.
“So you’re back.”
In the dark Chang’s hand slid to the knife at his waist, as with the other he turned on the light.
“Kuan,” he said. “What are you doing in my room?”
She’d been sitting in a chair and had risen to her feet. Her face was flushed and he knew her heart well enough to recognize it as the fire of anger.
“Waiting for you to return.”
“I am here now.”
“Where have you been?”
“That is my business, Kuan, not yours.”
She was wearing a plain blue cotton wrap and he saw her hands sink into its pockets, bunching into fists, but her voice was low and controlled.
“Chang An Lo, you could be arrested for what you’ve done tonight.”
Chang drew in a slow breath. A sadness swam into his blood and he felt it pulse through his veins. It was too late to take back her words.
“We could all be arrested for what you’ve done tonight,” she continued in a tense whisper. “Leaving the hotel secretly indicates you are doing something you don’t wish the authorities to know about.”
“Kuan,” he said so softly she had to take several steps closer to hear, “if this room is fitted with listening devices, which is very likely, your words have just condemned us to a labor camp in Siberia.”
Her flush deepened. Her dark eyes widened in alarm and darted around the room as if the devices might be visible.
“Chang,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Go to your room now. Get some sleep.”
“How can I sleep when . . . ?”
He opened the door and held it ajar. “Good night, Tang Kuan.”
Without looking at him she bowed, sidled through the gap, and left the room. He turned off the light and sat down on the bed. He closed his eyes, focused his thoughts, and let Lydia come to him. He filled his mind with the image of her dancing in his arms tonight, the flames of her hair burning away all sense of caution within him, her amber eyes drawing his spirit to hers once more, tightening the thread that bound them. He pictured again the way she turned her head, chin held high, the way her mouth curved up at the corners even when she wasn’t smiling. His thoughts lingered on the feel of his hand on her back as they moved across the floor, each fragment of his skin aware of the ripple of her young muscles under his fingers, of her ribs, of her long straight spine.
For the sake of China, for the country he loved, he’d given her up once already. Not again. Not this time, may the gods forgive him. He opened his eyes and stared out into the blackness.
THE COLD WAS LIKE A SLAP IN THE FACE AS LYDIA WALKED OUT into the courtyard. The sky wasn’t yet light, that was still several hours away, so the yardman wasn’t in his usual position of leaning on his snow shovel, puffing on a cigarette stub and complaining about the carelessness of the women at the pump, spilling water over the cobbles. It made
his job harder, hacking at the sheets of ice. Liev claimed all yardmen were paid informers for OGPU, keeping a careful watch over the comings and goings of the inhabitants of their buildings, but whether or not that was true, Lydia was eager to avoid his lecherous gaze.
She set off at a fast pace, retracing the route she and Elena had taken to the Housing Office. The night sky had cleared, stars glittering as bright and numerous as the sequins on Antonina’s black dress in the Hotel Metropol yesterday evening. The thought of Antonina and Alexei together was one she chose not to dwell on, but there was something about the woman that she liked. She was an individual, unwilling—or was it unable?—to conform, not yet jammed into the Soviet mold despite being married to one of Stalin’s elite. And now the certainty that Alexei was heading for Moscow too.
Hurry, brother. I’ll be waiting. At the Cathedral today, I promise.
“BOY! WAKE UP.”
Lydia kicked at the cardboard shelter. It trembled but didn’t fall down.
“Get up,” she called out. “I want to talk to you.”
She stood in the opening of the alcove, ready to block any sudden dash for freedom, but nothing moved.
“Get your skinny bones out here and this time keep your rat fangs inside your head,” she snapped.
She began to think the shelter was empty. It was too dark to see properly, so she didn’t bother peering in but gave it another kick. Inside, a faint whimper was abruptly silenced.
“I’ve brought a biscuit for Misty.”
She waited. Caught the sound of movement. A rustle, then a dark shape stood in front of her.
The Girl from Junchow Page 24
