Lydia walked over to the counter where the baker was waiting, and she placed Antonina’s gold bracelet down on it.
“You did well,” she said.
“WHAT PRICE A FATHER, ALEXEI?” LYDIA ASKED.
They were walking side by side down Granovsky Street near the university, the way they had once strolled the streets of Felanka together not so many months ago. But nothing was as simple between them as it had seemed then. Alexei was insisting on finding himself a room of his own in Moscow, and though the rain had eased, they were moving fast, as if they could outpace the dark shadows they threw behind them.
“What do you mean?” Alexei asked.
“I mean are you so ready to buy yourself a new father? One who provides false identity papers as soon as you ask and in return tells you what you can and can’t do. Is that the kind of father you want?”
Alexei didn’t slow his pace, but he turned his head to look at her for a moment. “This isn’t about fathers, is it?” he said quietly. “It’s about sisters.”
Lydia lowered her eyes. She refused to say yes.
“You must understand, Lydia, that Maksim Voshchinsky is my way of reaching Jens. It’s not a question of changing fathers. Or”—he paused and the wind snatched at his coat, flapping it around his legs—“or sisters.”
“But you like this Maksim.”
“Yes, I like him. He’s clever, he’s complicated.” He shrugged as he walked. “And he’s amusing.”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“What does that matter? I like you.”
She looked straight at him. “That’s all right, then.”
Forty-six
THE MOON HAD RISEN AND FOUGHT ITS WAY OUT from behind the clouds that had sat stubbornly over the city all day. It drenched the small silent room in a silvery light that made it hard for Lydia to hold on to what was real and what was shadow. She sat very still.
Chang An Lo lay on his side, breathing softly, his head on her lap, the weight of his cheek warm on the skin of her naked thigh. His eyes were closed, and Lydia was studying his face with the same intensity she used to study a snowflake as a child. As if by looking hard enough and long enough she could learn to unravel what it was that held such miraculous beauty and so know how to put it back together again when it melted.
She studied his features minutely. The fine bone under his eyebrow that swept up in such an expressive arch when he was amused, the thick fringe of black lashes. The long smooth eyelids. Were there images, she wondered, that never left the inside surface of them? In the translucent gleam of the moon the flesh of his lips looked metallic. Was that what his gods did? Forge him for themselves? And for China? Were they gathering unseen around her head even now, laughing at her presumption?
She listened carefully. No sound. No whispers, no sneers hidden behind hands. No invisible presences floating through the cracks in the window or crawling in thin trails under the door. The night was godless. Just Chang’s breath, soft as the moonlight itself. How long could she keep him isolated? Steal him like this from his gods and his companions, and slide him right from under the nose of danger? She knew it couldn’t last forever. Her fear for him was like a knot inside her, tightening each day, and her fear frightened her.
“Does Kuan know you leave the hotel at night?”
Chang opened his eyes, his black lashes heavy, and Lydia regretted speaking. His gaze was unfocused. She hadn’t realized he was on the edge of sleep. He’d told her earlier that she needed more rest, that if she was tired she’d make mistakes, but the same applied to him. Now she’d woken him.
“Do you mean,” he said with a slow smile, “is Kuan jealous that I leave the hotel at night?”
“Of course not.”
He laughed, and she bent her head and kissed his open mouth.
“Does she know?” she asked again.
“She says nothing, but I’m sure she suspects.”
“Is it safe?”
“Nothing is safe.”
“Do the Russian watchdogs know?”
“I think not. I am quiet. I leave through the bathroom window and over the roofs.”
“Take care.”
“I do.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She laid a hand on his silky black hair, fanning out her fingers to keep him safe. “Sleep now,” she whispered. “You need rest.”
“I need you.”
“You have me.”
She could feel his breath stirring the fiery curls at the base of her stomach. At times like this she had taught herself to stop thinking, to disconnect from all the wires in her brain and just be. To feel the musky warmth of his body and the bone of his shoulder embedded in her own flesh, as comfortable as though it were part of herself.
“Chang An Lo,” she said. Because it was time.
His lips lazily brushed her thigh in response. “What are you hatching now?”
“Chang An Lo, if I asked you to come to America with me, would you come?”
IT WAS SO EASY JENS ALMOST LAUGHED OUT LOUD. NO RAIN this time, just a mass of pinpricks of stars lurking somewhere above the floodlights. The baker drove into the courtyard, the boy in the wide brimmed hat scurried back and forth with trays and woven baskets, his limbs shooting off in different directions as he juggled his loads, scuffling his feet. Jens was impressed. His timing was immaculate.
The boy emerged with an empty tray just as his boss plunged into the building with another full one, which meant the boy had about one minute. But he didn’t appear to rush. With a moan of irritation he dumped his tray against the wall, flopped down on the mildewed stone bench that remained where it was in the yard because it was too heavy to move away, and started fiddling with the fastening on his boot. It seemed to have come undone.
Jens was watching through the compound fence the whole time and knew exactly where to look, but still he didn’t spot the moment the letter vanished. He had slotted it inside a square fold of thin metal that he had fashioned specially for it, like a rusty old flake that had dropped off the guttering above. It was behind one foot of the bench, no more than a scrap of shadow on the cobbles.
Jens didn’t see when it disappeared. It was there. Then it wasn’t there. Behind his back he clasped his hands together to stop them from shaking and when the horse clopped its way safely out into the street, he started breathing again.
THIS MOMENT HAD TO COME. CHANG KNEW IT. LIKE HE KNEW the sun would rise and the stonechats would fly south in the winter. But not yet. There was no need for it yet. He didn’t lift his head from Lydia’s lap. Instead he raised a hand and touched the strong tip of her chin and felt a quiver so faint she would have sworn it wasn’t there.
“America?” he smiled up at her, keeping everything the same. “Why America?”
“But would you? When this is over.”
“Would I come?”
“Yes.”
“Would you ask me?”
She swallowed. He saw the struggle of it. For a brief second her hand clenched in his hair, then released its grasp on him and withdrew, and the loss of it made him feel suddenly naked. The moment slowed his heart.
“They say it’s the land of opportunity,” she said, her voice growing animated. “Wide open spaces. There’s room for everyone. We could start a whole new life together without all the old rules. In America we would be free.”
He reached up and tapped the side of her forehead. “This is the only place a person can be free. In the mind.”
She smiled. “According to you, my love, everything is in the mind.”
“And this? Is this in my mind?”
He pulled her head down to his and kissed her soft mouth because her lips had said enough. But with her eyes shining silver, she astonished him by murmuring, “Chang An Lo, it seems to me it is you who are running from the future. Away from what is real. I am the one preparing us.”
“Preparing us for what?”
“For whatever is to co
me.”
“Preparing us in what way?”
The silver gleam of her wide eyes flared bright and seemed to arc deep into his own mind. “By loving you,” she whispered.
My precious daughter,
How can I tell you what it meant to me to receive your note? It was as if I’d been living in a black and rancid hole in the ground for the last twelve years and had suddenly come up for air. It filled me with joy.
Even my companions here questioned my unaccustomed good temper! I fear I have become cold and difficult, turned in on my miserable self and my endless thoughts, but that is the way I have learned to survive. Not letting the outside world take bites out of me. Everything in me was focused on self because without self there is no hope of survival in the brutal and barbaric Soviet zoo out there in the Siberian wilderness. It was how I held myself together. Stripped of humanity. Just the hard core of self. I am not nice to know.
Now you are here. My daughter. Lydia, you are blood of my blood. You are all that was best in me, while I retain the worst. In you I can laugh and sing and love and be the person I yearn to be once more but know I can no longer be inside myself. You are my life, Lydia. Live it well.
I grieve deeply for the loss of your mother. It is terrible that we have both left you, unguarded and alone. Forgive us, my daughter. Give my fondest thoughts and gratitude to Alexei and that old reprobate Popkov.
I love you.
Your joyful Papa
Lydia stood by the window, gazing out but seeing nothing, her back to Popkov and Elena and the boy. For a long time she made no sound and would not relinquish her hold on the sheet of paper in her hand. Any more than she would relinquish her hold on life. They made her tea, which she didn’t drink, and draped a coat over her shoulders as the sun escaped behind the roofs and the courtyard below was plunged into black shadow.
That was when she turned to Popkov and handed him the letter.
“Liev,” she said, “we have to get him out.”
“NO.”
“Alexei, please.”
“No, Lydia, no more letters.”
“But why?”
“I’ve already warned you. The risk is too great. It will alert the authorities and end up with Jens Friis being packed off to one of the mines as punishment. Can’t you see? You’re making things worse for him, not better. Is that what you want?”
She shook her head.
“Then you have to stop at once.”
They were in Maksim Voshchinsky’s living room. Lydia hated having this argument in the first place, but to have it in front of the thief made her sick. Nevertheless she had no choice. Until he succeeded in finding a room of his own, Alexei had abandoned her empty bed at night in the room with Popkov and Elena and was sleeping in Maksim’s apartment. But by the look of him he hadn’t slept at all well. Damn him. She couldn’t help hoping it was an excess of brandy and late-night cards and too many cigarettes, rather than anything more sinister. The thought of her brother crawling through windows and stuffing someone else’s clocks and candlesticks into sacks sent the soles of her feet into spasms of fear. She didn’t trust this Maksim. Any more than he trusted her.
“Alexei,” she said with a patience that astonished even herself, “I am grateful that you and Maksim are working out a—”
“No need for you to be grateful, my dear,” Maksim said with a smile so smooth and empty she wanted to knock it off his face.
“Of course I’m grateful to you, pakhan. Alexei is my dear brother, so—”
“Brothers and sisters don’t exist in the vory v zakone,” Maksim pointed out.
He leaned toward her in his chair, gathering the soft folds of his liver-colored dressing gown around his fleshy body, and he let her see into his eyes. Let her peer at the sharpened daggers in there. He wanted her to know. To make no mistake. She blinked but didn’t look away.
“Lydia, my dear,” he said in a tone as pleasant as though about to offer her more tea, “go away. Alexei and I are busy.”
She remained seated. “I’d like to hear, if I may, the plans you have for—”
“When we are ready, you will know.”
She didn’t argue, but neither did she believe him.
“The truck?” she asked instead.
“Alexei,” Maksim addressed his new vor, “is this necessary?”
“Yes.”
At least that was something. She smiled at her brother, but he gave nothing in return. She wanted to seize his hand and drag him out of here.
Maksim applied his empty smile to her with a sigh that rumpled his mustache and wobbled his chins. “We’ve tracked the truck.”
“To where?”
“To a location well outside Moscow.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Nyet.”
“I assume it’s well guarded.”
“Of course.”
“I need to see it, Maksim. Please.”
“Nyet.”
She thought fast. It was that or scratch the bastard’s empty eyes out.
“My brother will not want me to make a nuisance of myself, any more than you do. He knows how difficult I can be. After this,” she smiled sweetly, “I shall not bother either of you any more.”
His small eyes didn’t even flicker. “Agreed.”
It all happened so quickly. “Thank you.”
“Now go,” the thief said politely.
“May I have the letter back?” she asked Alexei, and held out her hand. She was frightened he would destroy it if she left it with him. He’d been so annoyed. Even now she wasn’t sure he wouldn’t tear it up in front of her just to make his point.
“No more letters,” he reiterated as he passed it to her.
Lydia took it and tried to hide her relief. She nodded stiffly to Alexei, rose to her feet and moved over to the door. She made herself smile at Maksim before leaving.
“Thank you, pakhan. Spasibo. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”
A cool stare was the only response. Alexei had the courtesy to join her at the door, but his manner was still withdrawn. She knew what the real problem was, where the hurt and the anger came from. I love you, their father had written to her in the letter. But only scrawled Give my fondest thoughts and gratitude to Alexei. A world of difference. She didn’t want that gap to open up at their feet. She might tumble into the void.
She said quietly, “Walk with me to the corner of the street, Alexei.”
IN HIS COAT ALEXEI LOOKED MORE LIKE HIS OLD SELF. SHE was pleased to see it was the one with the tear in the collar, the one against which she’d slept on the train with her head rolling around on its itchy shoulder. At least Maksim Voshchinsky had not replaced that. Not yet. Outside, the street was almost deserted instead of the usual bustle and rush of workers, and the chill air smelled of burned rubber. It settled like stinging black bees in the nostrils.
Alexei frowned. “Damn it, another factory burnt down. Poor bloody fools. That means jobs gone. No jobs means no food, and this winter is far from over yet. It’s the second fire this month. Industrial fires happen all the time because of lack of safety regulations. Just carelessness. The workers smoke cigarettes where they shouldn’t, hanging around chemicals and gas cylinders. No one stops them.”
“What about the unions? Don’t they enforce rules?”
“They try, but no one takes a blind bit of notice. It’s the old working habits. They die hard.”
“Unlike old family habits, it seems.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you seem to have forgotten we’re brother and sister.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Please, Alexei, don’t forget about Jens too.”
He seized her arm, drew her across the road to a baker’s shop, and made her look at the queue outside. A line of women with gaunt faces and old men with eyes hard as iron. He headed to the front of the line and into the shop.
Through the window Lydia watched the woman behind the counter smile at him, a cautious twitch of the mouth, remove a gray paper bag from a back shelf, and present it to Alexei. There was no exchange of kopecks.
Alexei rejoined Lydia on the pavement. With a solemn face he removed two pirozhki from the bag and presented her with one.
“That,” he said, “is why your implications are absurd.” She could hear the quiver of anger in his words.
“The advantages of a vor?”
“Exactly.”
He was breathing hard. Lydia wanted to throw the pirozhok on the ground and tread on it. She was the first to look away.
“Alexei, there are disadvantages, as well as advantages. Don’t forget that.”
To her surprise Alexei laughed. He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close, steering her past the dismal line. She slipped the pirozhok into the hand of a pockmarked child hiding in its mother’s skirts and concentrated on enjoying the unexpected warmth of her brother’s attention.
“Now what is it,” he asked as he marched her to the corner of the street, “that you wanted to say to me in private?”
“Don’t trust Maksim.”
He stopped. Faced her. The anger there once more at the back of his eyes.
“Be careful,” she added. “I don’t want you to be . . .”
The word wouldn’t come.
“You don’t want me to be what?” he demanded.
“To be . . . damaged.”
She didn’t look at him. The silence that ballooned between them was pricked by the sound of a cart rumbling past. Alexei kissed Lydia’s cheek, a quick touch of his lips to her cold skin and then away. As though ashamed of the gesture. When she looked up he was off striding back down the street, arms swinging as though to drive him even faster away from her.
Without turning around he shouted, “No more letters, Lydia.”
Damn you, Alexei Serov. Damn you to hell.
The Girl from Junchow Page 38
