No, stay out of my workroom.
The colonel knew perfectly well they all hated the ignorant fingers rearranging and even removing their papers. But he insisted on it. To remind them what they were.
“First, I wish to speak to them.”
Everyone looked toward the tall young Chinese who had spoken, and General Tursenov’s face creased into an uneasy frown. To be polite he must say yes. But to be safe he must say no. Jens observed the struggle and was not surprised when the Chinese stepped away from the group of armbands and took long strides over to the line of workers, as if the colonel had already given permission. The determination of it made Jens want to smile at what must be going on in Tursenov’s head right now. The visitor stood at one end of the line and studied them.
“They are all prisoners, are they not?”
“Da. But no names, please.”
The colonel started to draw the rest of the delegation toward the door in the hope that the renegade would follow. But the young Chinese took no notice. His dark eyes took in the face of each of the five male prisoners; the two women he ignored completely. When his gaze settled on Jens, there was a question in it but Jens couldn’t work out what it was. This young man disturbed him but at the same time excited him. With a jolt he realized he was being confronted by an independent mind, one that had not been sucked dry of all its inner intricacies by a blunt State system. Jens had almost forgotten what that felt like, and the unexpected challenge brought a smile to his lips. The Chinese approached but stopped first in front of Ivanovich, who stood next to Jens, a man nearly as tall as himself.
“You,” he said, eyes fixed on Ivanovich’s face. “What is it you do?”
“Comrade Chang,” Tursenov burst out, “such details are not—”
“I do not ask what he is working on. Only what his field of work is.” The black eyes centered on the colonel, and there was a pause.
“Very well,” Tursenov said with ill grace, and nodded at Ivanovich.
“I am an explosives expert,” the prisoner said in an undertone.
Jens saw the interest slide out of the black eyes, the way the tide ebbs off a beach and leaves nothing behind.
“And you? What is your job?”
Jens glanced at Tursenov. Received a nod.
“I am an engineer.”
The Chinese made no comment, just drew breath quietly and studied Jens, inspected his face, his hair, his clothes, as though committing them to memory. Suddenly the lengthy inspection by this foreigner irritated Jens. He looked away.
“I am an engineer,” he said in a curt voice, “not a zoo animal.”
“Are you good?”
“I’m the best. That’s why I’m here.”
Despite himself, he was drawn to look back at the Chinese, and something in the black eyes had changed. Somewhere deep inside them lay laughter. Whoever this man was, he’d brought a breath of the outside world into this stifling airless cage.
“And you, Comrade Chang,” Jens said with a half-smile, “are you the best at whatever the hell it is you do?”
“Silence, prisoner,” Tursenov snapped from across the room.
“You will see,” the Chinese answered.
He surprised Jens by reaching out and touching Jens’s chest. A brief pat, nothing more. But the physical contact came as a shock. Abruptly the tall slender figure was gone. Yet as he walked through the door, he glanced back over his shoulder, as Jens had known he would. Their eyes held, then it was over. The door closed, and the prisoners relaxed and started to complain that their workroom space was being invaded yet again.
“Are you all right, Jens?” Olga asked. Her large blue eyes were concerned. “You look pale.”
“In this hole, we’re all pale,” he said angrily. “So pale we’re invisible.”
“Don’t be upset, Jens. They may treat us like zoo animals but we’re still here. Still alive.”
“Is this alive?”
“As long as your heart is beating, you are alive.”
He touched his hand to his chest and smiled at her. “Then I must still be alive because it’s pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer.”
“I’m glad. Make sure you keep it that way.”
She gave him an affectionate look and turned away in response to a query from one of the others. Jens immediately slid his fingers inside the front of his jacket to retrieve the note that he knew he’d find there.
Jens Friis.
I am a friend of your daughter, Lydia. She is here in Moscow. Now that I know where you are, I will inform her. Be alert for communication.
Jens was sitting on the end of his bed, hunched over the note to protect it from prying eyes. He read it once more, for the thousandth time, before tearing it into minute shreds that lay on his lap like confetti. When he was satisfied he could make the scraps no smaller, he started to sprinkle them on his tongue and swallow them. His hands were shaking.
Lydia’s face felt stiff. It was smiling and the muscles of her cheeks still moved when she spoke, but only just. She had to force them. Her gaze kept straying back to the strong lines of Dmitri Malofeyev’s face as he sat next to her sipping his coffee, and she wondered how she was managing to keep her own coffee in her cup instead of in his face. He knew where her father was locked up. He’d admitted as much to his wife. But he refused to reveal it.
“Lydia, may I offer you another one?”
It was Alexei who spoke. He was sitting opposite her at the table.
“Of course, spasibo. They’re so good.”
Her brother passed her the gilt-edged plate of tiny iced cakes, each topped with a cherry curled inside a sugary case. She nodded her thanks, but it wasn’t for the cakes. He was alerting her. Dmitri had noticed her scrutiny of him, and his response was sharp curiosity.
“Eat up, my dear girl,” Dmitri encouraged easily. “Put more flesh on those lovely bones of yours.”
“Thank you.”
She took another cake in her fingers and smiled at him, but left the delicacy untouched. Right now it would choke her. This whole thing was Dmitri’s idea. To bring them all to this elite hotel for morning coffee, instead of to his apartment as Antonina had intended. His hand rested lightly on his wife’s on the table, pinning down the white glove, and his eyes darted continually from Lydia to Alexei and back again. It was the kind of place Lydia had spent her childhood gazing at from outside, yearning to be allowed in: all white linen napery, bone china, and carpets so thick they felt like cats under her feet. But now that she was here, she was not so sure. She didn’t like the way the waiters never met her eye or the sense that somehow there seemed to be the smell of dead bones under the tables.
Conversation was stilted. Lydia didn’t much care, but Dmitri appeared amused and she couldn’t imagine why. Antonina and Alexei said little, drinking their coffee and smoking their cigarettes. Antonina was dressed in black and using a neat ebony cigarette holder that Lydia loved. There was an air of anticipation. Everyone waiting for something to happen. No one quite sure what.
“Have you made good use of the food I brought you?” Dmitri asked, eyeing her over the rim of his feather-fine coffee cup.
“The puppy has been enjoying the ham.”
Now why did she say that? Just to annoy him?
“It was meant for you, Lydia.”
She leaned forward, elbows on the pristine white cloth as she met his gaze and gave it one more go. “Tell me, Dmitri, please, have you managed to find out yet where Jens Friis is being held?”
“I’ll say this for you, my dear. You don’t give up.”
“So?”
“So no, I’m sorry. I’m afraid not.”
She frowned at him. “You’re a useless liar.”
He threw back his head and released a great rush of laughter. “Listen to the girl, Antonina. She thinks I’m a bad liar.”
His wife tipped her head to one side, considering the point for a moment, like a bright-eyed blackbird. “She doesn’t know you as well
as I do, does she?”
He laughed again. “The trouble with women,” he said to Alexei, “is that they think they know you better than you know yourself. Don’t you agree?”
“In my experience,” Alexei said a little stiffly but with every appearance of courtesy, “they usually know more than we think they do.”
A silence so brief it was barely noticeable scuttled across the table. Lydia fiddled with her spoon, rattling its silver edge against the saucer to fill the gap, and flicked a glance at her brother. Ever since she’d returned to their room in the gray light of early morning he had been aloof and uncommunicative. He made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of Chang, regarded him as an unwelcome distraction. Well, she disapproved of his disapproval.
“Your brother appears to be a connoisseur of women,” Dmitri teased. “Don’t you agree, Antonina?”
His wife turned her head and studied the silent figure of Alexei sitting beside her. “I think he looks tired,” she murmured gently, and smiled, first at Alexei, then at Dmitri.
“How long do you intend to stay in Moscow, Comrade Serov?” Malofeyev asked.
“As long as it takes to get my business completed.”
Malofeyev inclined his head. “If I can be of assistance, don’t hesitate to ask. I have contacts in this city.”
“So have I,” Alexei responded curtly.
Under the table Lydia stepped on his toe.
“I don’t doubt that for a moment,” Malofeyev said, his tone cooler. He regarded his guest in silence for the time it took his wife to fit a new cigarette into her holder. “I’m only offering help. If you should need it,” he added.
“Like you offered help to my sister. Is this a habit of yours? Helping strangers?”
Chyort! Lydia cursed under her breath. She glanced across at Antonina and found her smiling, a big broad smile, eyes bright with amusement. She looked ten years younger, and for once the white gloves were free from fretting fingernails.
“Lydia,” she said, “don’t you think this place is charming?” She gestured at the crystal chandeliers and the silk water lilies that floated in a fountain of fragrant water in the center of the room. “It’s so civilized.”
“So civilized,” Lydia repeated softly. A needle point of anger pricked under her ribs. She snapped her head around to face Dmitri. “Unlike the place you were stationed in before, I believe.”
He didn’t move. She wondered if he was even breathing, he was so still. It was Antonina who laughed delightedly and tapped her husband’s arm with the tip of her cigarette holder.
“What do you think, my darling? Is Moscow more civilized than Trovitsk camp? Or less? I can think of arguments for both.”
Her husband ignored her. Just as he ignored Lydia.
“It seems to me, Comrade Serov, for a brother and sister, you are not at all alike.”
“That, comrade, is where you are mistaken. Lydia and I are very similar.”
“Is that so? In what way?”
“In the way we view the world.”
“What, from under a pile of rules and regulations like everyone else?”
“Perhaps. But nevertheless we do believe we can influence what happens to us.”
“Ah, I see. The cult of the individual. Surely Marx and Lenin and Stalin have firmly established that it is the forward progress of the collective whole that counts, not the cogs in the wheels. They are . . . dispensable.”
Lydia and Antonina exchanged a glance.
“Dmitri,” Antonina interrupted with an anxious flick of her hair, “let our guests enjoy their coffee in peace. You are so provocative.”
“I believe your husband is right,” Alexei pointed out. “Certain cogs are dispensable. It’s a matter of choosing the right ones.” He leaned back in his chair, his face set hard.
“Dmitri,” Lydia said quickly, and jumped to her feet. A nudge of coffee spoiled the whiteness of the cloth. “Come with me, please. I want a word.”
DMITRI MALOFEYEV AND LYDIA WALKED TOWARD THE LARGE revolving front door of the hotel, but before they reached it she spotted a heavy oak door off to the left marked CARD ROOM. She pushed it open, entered, and held the door ajar to admit Dmitri after her.
“You in the mood for a game of poker?” He smiled.
“I’m willing to gamble, if that’s what you mean.”
The room was unused at this hour of the morning. Small square green baize tables were dotted around, and an impressive aspidistra plant blocked most of the light from the window so that the air had a strange greenish shimmer to it. As if they were underwater. Lydia turned to face her companion. She placed her hands on her hips to keep them still and she spoke seriously.
“Dmitri, help me. We both know you can. Please.”
He didn’t smile or laugh or raise a mocking eyebrow this time. He regarded her with a solemn expression. “What is it you want?”
“The same as before. Where Jens Friis is held.”
Slowly he shook his head, his red hair closer to purple in this strange light. She knew her own must look the same. “That’s not possible, Lydia. I’ve told you already. Now you must stop asking me.”
“It is possible. All you have to do is tell me. No one need know.”
“But I would know.”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes, I rather think it does.”
The gap between them was about three paces. Very deliberately, her mouth as dry as the green baize, she reduced it to two.
“What would persuade you to say yes?” she whispered.
To her astonishment his eyes grew sad and he murmured, “I’m not worth it, Lydia. Take your beautiful wares elsewhere before I spoil them.”
“I’m staying right here.”
“Ah, I see. This is where you fall into my arms and I whisper sweet prison names in your ear in return.”
“Something like that.”
“It’s what I should have expected.”
“You make me feel cheap.”
“No, lovely Lydia, you’ll never come cheap, of that I’m certain. The price will always be high.”
She swallowed, beating down a sense of being out of her depth. Of drowning in this strange watery light.
“It’s not a high price,” she insisted. “One prison name and address. Easy for you.”
He let his eyes inspect her carefully, from her scruffy shoes to her thin hips, up to her breasts, her throat, and finally her face, as though judging her worth. Her cheeks started to burn.
He smiled, an odd crooked smile. “You are particularly desirable when you blush like that, Lydia. Do you know that?”
“Are you in the mood to gamble, Dmitri?”
Again he surprised her. Each time she tried to take control he seemed to sidestep her. He pulled his silver cigarette case from inside his jacket, removed one cigarette, and tossed the case to her. She caught it.
“Use that, Lydia. Go and buy yourself your information with that. I have no intention of destroying my future career in the Kremlin just because I can’t say no to a beautiful girl. Not even one with the face of an angel and the eyes of a tiger ready to rip my heart out of my chest if I don’t do what she asks.”
Lydia was stunned. She wanted to drop the silver case to the floor, but her fingers wouldn’t let it go. She watched him light his cigarette with a steady hand.
“So,” he said when he had exhaled a gray plume of smoke from his nostrils, “what would you do if you knew the address of this prison? Write to Jens Friis? Hello, how are you? I’m having a good time in Moscow. Is that what you plan to do?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what?”
“That’s my business.”
They stared at each other. Suddenly hostile.
“They aren’t allowed letters or contact of any sort,” he said. “You must know that.”
“I’m not thinking of sending a postcard.”
“No.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I dare say you aren’t.”
She reached out, took the cigarette from him, and stubbed it out in an ashtray on the nearest table. She lifted his hand and placed it over her racing heart. His mouth softened instantly. She stretched up on her toes, encircled his neck with her arms, and pulled his head down to hers till her lips were pressed hard against his. At first he didn’t respond. Unyielding and reluctant. She feared she’d gotten it all wrong. But as soon as she leaned her weight against him, letting the heat of her body sweep over his, he changed abruptly. His tongue darted into her mouth, his hands started to pull at her blouse, and a sound like a drunken moan escaped his lips. He had her now. Exactly what he wanted.
Lydia kept her eyes open. Forced herself to look at him as his hand slid under the waistband of her skirt.
“Well, what a pretty party this is. Can anyone join in or is it private?”
Lydia froze. Dmitri unwound himself. He breathed out heavily.
“Hello, Antonina,” he said with an untroubled smile. “Lydia was just teaching me the skills of gambling.”
“Bidding high, were you?”
“Extremely.”
Antonina’s fingernails began to trace a path up and down her long white gloves. “Lydia, your brother wishes to speak with you.”
Lydia felt a tremor moving like a snake in her gut. Without a word and without a glance at the Russian husband and wife, she walked out of the room. The snake shifted its coils inside her, sliding up from her stomach to her throat till she thought she would be sick.
“LYDIA IVA NOVA, YOU’RE UNDER ARREST.”
Lydia spun around to face the speaker, heart racing, legs tensed to run. A scruffy mop of milk-white hair and a boy’s wide grin greeted her. Even the dog in its sack on his chest had its pink tongue lolling out, laughing.
“You bastard,” she moaned, and tried to clip Edik on the ear but he ducked away with ease and pranced up on his toes beside her.
The Girl from Junchow Page 35
