She felt a sudden, irrational and completely unjustifiable surge of jealousy. Friends. Andrei’s friends. People who knew him, probably better than she. She picked up a small piece of ebony that lay on the bench, ran her fingers over its smooth and glassy surface, forced lightness into her voice. ‘What did you do?’
He shrugged. ‘We drank a little. Talked a lot.’
‘What about?’
He turned his head, looking at her, a question in his eyes.
‘I just wondered,’ she said, defensively.
He laid down the baton on which he had been working, swung his feet down from the bar of the stool. ‘What do Russians ever speak of? Politics. Religion. The meaning of life.’ His long mouth turned down at the corners in a small, half-mocking smile. ‘And as always to no avail whatsoever.’
She watched him cross the room to the door that led to the living room.
At the door he turned, poised and impassive. ‘Tea?’
She felt the rise of such a conflict of emotions that for a moment she feared she might scream.
‘No,’ she said, very quietly. ‘No tea. Thank you.’ The slight, still figure blurred before her eyes. ‘Andrei,’ she said, hearing her own voice, too loud, childishly out of control. ‘Please! I can’t bear it that we shouldn’t be friends. I can’t – bear it.’ The tears spilled hot down her cheeks. She did not bother to hide them, nor to brush them away. The lamp light shone on his face as he moved swiftly towards her. A single step took her into his arms. All control lost, she was sobbing furiously now, her body shaking, her head buried in his shoulder. His arm tightened about her; she felt his hand, gentle in her hair. He was murmuring quiet, soothing words that through the storm of her emotions meant nothing; the only thing she was aware of was the feel of his body against hers, the warmth of his skin, the brush of his crisp, thick hair against her cheek. She could not move. She wanted to stay for ever there, pressed so close to him she could hear – feel – the beating of his heart as if it were in her own body.
She lifted her head. And gently he kissed her; tenderly, thoroughly and for a very long time.
At last they drew a little apart. His eyes were open, honest and steady upon her face. Anna could not sustain the look. She bent her head a little. He waited. ‘Now you see what’s happened to us,’ he said, at last.
She said nothing.
‘And now you see why we must stay away from each other.’
‘No!’ The word was agonized. ‘No! I can’t! I’ve – I’ve never had anyone – never known anyone –’ She stopped, confused, angry with herself at her inarticulate outburst. She took several long, steadying breaths. ‘I’ve never had anyone to love before,’ she said; and believed it. She lifted her chin, suddenly sure, suddenly brave. ‘You want us to run away from it. You want us to pretend it hasn’t happened. Don’t you see that we can’t do that? We have to face it. Face it!’ She stopped, not sure of herself enough to continue.
His expression had changed. He watched her intently, listening.
She stepped a little further from him, her hands still linked in his. ‘You’re right of course; we mustn’t allow this to happen again. But – Andrei – how can we deny our friendship? Our –’ she hesitated ‘– our love?’ Her face was still tear-streaked, the fragile skin fiercely flushed. ‘The world is such a loveless place,’ she whispered, and the tears overflowed again.
‘What are you suggesting?’ he asked. His warm fingers gripped hers firmly, a lifeline in stormy seas.
‘That we don’t – can’t – throw away something so precious. I don’t care what others might think. We know ourselves; we know that something so wonderful can’t be wrong. We must be careful, yes. Of each other, and of others. But Andrei – surely that doesn’t mean that we must cut ourselves off from each other? You wouldn’t harm me – I know you wouldn’t. But I’ll die, I mean it, I’ll die if I don’t have you to come to. To talk to. To make music with. Andrei, please!’ In her innocence the words were spoken in perfect faith and honesty. ‘We can be friends, can’t we? Loving friends? You can’t deny me that?’
He dropped her hand and turned from her.
‘Andrei!’
He took a long breath, exhaled very slowly. ‘Yes, Anna, of course. We can be friends.’
‘And I can come and see you?’
‘Yes. You can come to see me. But Anna – bring Lenka, or one of the others. Don’t come alone.’
‘No. I won’t. I promise I won’t.’ She stood for a moment uncertainly. He did not turn. There was a long moment’s silence. Anna turned towards the door. Stopped. Waited.
Andrei neither moved nor spoke.
Longing to touch him, longing to ease the awful tension that she sensed in his grim jaw and tensed shoulders, the feel of his mouth still upon hers, she turned and left. ‘Good night,’ she said quietly from the door. ‘God bless.’
He did not reply.
A moment after the door had shut behind her he began to curse, savagely and steadily. In nearly thirty-five years of life he had acquired a breadth of expression that surprised – and in other circumstances would have amused – him. After a few colourful moments he stopped, walked purposefully to the door, taking his jacket from the hook on the back of it as he passed and flinging it about his shoulders. He did not bother to shut the door, but left it swinging open behind him.
Upstairs Anna excused herself swiftly on the grounds of tiredness and went to bed. Hardly anyone noticed. Dmitri was being excessively sick, attended by the stoic Seraphima and a Varya who, the nursing of the afflicted not exactly being her forte, looked about to join him at the bowl. Lenka was sitting hunched in a chair in the parlour, her nose determinedly in a book, ignoring the world; Anna did not even bother to bid her good night. Margarita was blissfully asleep, her expression seraphic.
Anna hurried into the big bed, pulled the clothes over her head. Only then did she allow herself to think about what had happened downstairs. She could not recall a word that either of them had said. She remembered only the feel of Andrei’s body against hers, and above all the touch of his lips. Exhausted, she slept surprisingly quickly.
* * *
Andrei tipped the dregs of the bottle into his glass. A dark-haired girl snaked an arm about his waist. He shook his head, smiling. She pouted, and left him. On the far side of the room a girl stood with a sailor, laughing. She was tall, and thin, and her hair glinted copper in the light. Andrei crooked a finger at the man who served behind the bar. The man leaned to him. A couple of glittering coins changed hands. The man slipped from behind the bar and crossed the room.
Andrei tipped the glass, and drained it.
The redheaded girl turned disdainfully from the barman, stopped, took something from him, lifted her head and looked across the crowded cafe.
Andrei watched her.
She spoke to the sailor, shook his hand from her arm and began to move through the crowds to where Andrei sat, waiting.
Chapter Six
Lenka returned the respectful greetings of her father’s two dapper young assistants as she walked through the shop and mounted the wide staircase that led to Victor’s office. The walk from the apartment had been a pleasant one; before she returned home she would be able to stroll along the Nevsky and look in the shop windows. Perhaps it wasn’t such a nuisance after all that Anna had not been available to carry her mother’s message to her father.
She tapped on the door; had pushed it open before she had had time to register that the voice that had answered was not Victor’s.
Pavel Petrovich turned from the window, smiling. The chair behind Victor’s desk was empty.
Lenka stopped in the open doorway as if struck. ‘I – was looking for Papa –’
‘So am I, my dear Lenka. So am I. Or, should I say, I’m waiting for him. I have to leave Petersburg for a little while and we have some unfinished business to attend to before I go. They tell me downstairs that he’ll be back at any time. Come in, child, come in. It’s draughty
with the door open.’
She trembled quite literally upon the verge of turning tail and running like a frightened child; and she could see that he knew it. His smile widened. The rapacious eyes flickered, and the skin of her body crept, raising the hairs on forearms and neck. ‘I’ll come back later,’ she said.
‘No.’ He crossed the room in a couple of quick strides, took her arm and drew her into the room, pushing the door shut behind her. ‘Oh, no, my dear. I’m certain your father would rather that you stayed to keep me company until his arrival. Don’t you think?’
She did not reply.
He stepped away from her, perched himself upon the corner of the desk, arms crossed, one leg swinging, watching her.
The familiar, paralysing panic rose; she could barely breathe. His gaze quite deliberately dropped to her breasts, lingered there. When he slipped from the desk and moved towards her she stood petrified, rooted to the spot. ‘There are many things I shall teach you, Lenka,’ he said, softly. ‘Oh, yes. Many things.’
‘Wh-what do you mean?’ His face, with its slanted bones and narrow eyes, seemed to her to be the cruellest thing she had ever encountered. Everything about it terrified her; the eyes, though lit with that venomous light, were cold, the line of mouth harsh. She felt as an insect must feel, pinned live and helpless to a table top. When he lifted his hands to her breasts she turned her head sharply from him, her face twisted in fear and in disgust. His touch at first was surprisingly light; expertly he roused her. She clenched her teeth. He laughed. And then he had her nipples between his fingers, pinching viciously, deliberately hurting. She gasped with pain, tried to pull from him, but in a quick movement he had her wrist in his hand, her arm pinned behind her arched back. Easily holding her he bent his head, closed his lips and then his teeth upon her nipples through the material of her dress, deliberately biting. At first she felt only the pain; and then the sensation of warmth, the wetness of his spittle as it soaked through the thin material and, revulsion overwhelming her, she found the strength to throw him from her. Taken by surprise at the sudden strength of the movement he laughed aloud; in her inexperience she failed utterly to see that her resistance, far from deterring, afforded him a delight that, jaded, he had thought long lost.
She retreated clumsily to the door, watching him fearfully, groping behind her for the handle. She knew as well as anyone how important this beast was to her father. She knew that if she screamed, if she caused a scandal – if indeed anyone believed her story, which was in itself probably doubtful – her father would never, ever, forgive her. She fumbled for the door handle.
He had straightened and was upon her in a stride, a hand over her shoulder, upon the door, holding it shut fast. ‘Bare your dugs, Lenka,’ he said, softly, into her ear, a fierce edge of excitement to his voice. ‘Let me touch them, naked. The first – I am the first, aren’t I? Come, Lenka – open your dress and bare them. Let me see your naked breasts. Your big, soft, naked tits – what harm? A small favour, before I leave.’
She was shuddering with disgust and terror, beyond tears.
‘Bare yourself, Lenka.’ His fingers were working upon the buttons of her dress. ‘You’ll enjoy it. I promise you. You’ll see –’
‘No! No!’ She pushed him from her, wriggled from his hold, flew to the desk, banging her hip painfully upon it as she ran behind it, putting its solid bulk between them. ‘I’ll scream,’ she said, desperately calm. ‘Believe me. I’ll scream this building down if you touch me again. The whole of Petersburg will hear me.’ Her breath was choking her. Her fingers fumbled frantically with the buttons he had undone. ‘I’ll – I’ll tell Papa.’ She knew as she spoke the emptiness of the threat.
The already harsh line of his mouth tightened. He stood tense for a moment, then stepped back, leaving the way to the door open. She finished buttoning her dress, stood in silence, warily watching him.
‘You want to go?’ he asked, the contemptuous quiet of his voice a menace in itself. ‘Go. You want to play the outraged innocent? Please yourself. But know this, Lenka – you won’t escape me. When you’re mine I’ll have you serving at my table barebreasted if I so desire. Best to please me, Lenka. Always best to please me. I can be a loving master or a cruel one. A bitch is brought to heel as well by a beating as by kindness. The choice is yours.’
She stared at him. The words made no sense to her. All she knew was that she had to get away, away from those merciless eyes and from the filthy threat of the man. Very slowly she sidled around the desk, moved towards the door. He watched her mockingly. ‘Naked to the waist, Lenka,’ he said, quietly, smiling, the very normality of his voice as he spoke the monstrous words almost the most shocking thing about them. ‘Think about it. Serving at my table. And – my friends perhaps? Would you like that, do you think? Serving us naked – offering yourself to be fondled – you know you could enjoy –’
‘Stop it!’ Her hands over her ears she made a dash for the door. He made no effort to stop her. She flung it open, turned on him. ‘You’re mad!’ she said. ‘You hear me? Mad!’
As she turned and ran along the open balcony to the stairs she heard his soft laughter behind her. Blindly she clattered down the stairs, ignoring the surprised looks of assistants and customers alike as she ran through the shop, blundering into a table, stumbling over a rug. Outside she took several great gulps of air before turning to run down the wide avenue, skirts lifted, feet flying. Anything – anything! – to put distance between her and that foul tongue, those disgusting eyes, those groping, twisting fingers.
She did not stop until she reached the river, where she leaned against the parapet of the bridge, panting for breath, fighting a humiliating need to retch. Slowly, slowly, her breathing calmed.
The waters of the river moved beneath her, shining and serene.
She leaned her elbows on the parapet, bent her face into her cupped hands, stood so for a very long time. Images flickered behind her closed eyes, Donovalov’s voice sounded in her ears. Her breasts were horribly sore. Words were pounding in her head, repeating themselves, over and over. Terrible words. What had he meant: ‘When you are mine’? What had he meant? She closed her eyes, struggled to calm her breathing. He had said it to frighten her of course. Everything he said, he said to frighten her. He could not possibly have meant it literally. How could he?
She could still feel his hands on her body, still hear the sound of that aroused and vicious voice in her ear. Still sense that tiniest and disgusting quiver of reaction that she knew her treacherous body had imparted to him.
It was her fault. It must be. He did not look at Anna like that; would never dare to lay a finger upon her sister, Lenka knew. No. Her father was right. The things that happened to her were always her own fault. Somehow, Donovalov knew; she was as bad as he was. The surge of self-disgust that accompanied the thought brought another stirring of nausea.
She lifted her head, feeling the gentle breeze on her wet face.
The river – cool, smooth, clean – swirled quietly about the pillars of the bridge. It was deep here, and very wide. She stood for what seemed to be an age, staring down into it. Here perhaps was an answer? A swift, cold shock – the quiet of the dark waters – and then peace. She let the thought float in her mind for a moment and then in despair she turned away. She did not have the resolve to kill herself. Even in that she would fail, she knew.
Workers were hurrying across the bridge, back to the cramped maze of streets on the other side of the river where most of them lived. Several glanced at her curiously. She was suddenly aware of her tears, of her hair blowing untidily in the wind. She scrubbed at her wet eyes with the back of her hand, tried largely ineffectually to tuck the long wisps of hair back into its pins. A little calmer, she turned back to the river. Great pied crows hopped heavily upon the muddy strand, scavenging. The spire of the Admiralty gleamed in the afternoon sun. The old, sullen resentment was rising. Why should the rest of the world be always right and she, Lenka, always wrong? Why
could she never achieve the content that others apparently took for granted? Under what miserable star had she been born that her life should be so blighted?
Her young spirit was as sore as her abused body, her uncertainty and her fear of the future crystallized suddenly into a near-hatred of the busy, normal, apparently happy world about her. Always difficult, always lonely, she now felt totally isolated, utterly miserable.
And it was Anna’s fault.
The thought came from nowhere, settling into her mind like one of the huge, ungainly birds that flapped and cawed along the shore. Anna’s fault.
She pushed herself away from the parapet and began to walk, slowly, across the bridge, in the direction of the apartment, eyes blindly upon the pavement at her feet.
Anna had not spoken to their father about the University as she’d promised. As she had faithfully promised.
Anna had not even attempted to break the strained silence that had fallen between them in these past weeks. She had been too involved in her new friendship with their cousin, too absorbed in her stupid music, too busy running up and down the stairs to Uncle Andrei. Anna did not care. Anna had never cared.
Hot tears blurred her eyes again. Self-pity rose, not unnaturally, to smother self-disgust. Disappointment and hurt merged into self-justifying hostility; whatever the world might think, Lenka’s unhappiness was not her own fault; it was Anna’s.
Anna had not even noticed Donovalov’s horrible and unwelcome attentions to her sister. Or – worse – if she had, she had ignored them. She had not listened when Lenka had tried to tell her; had not wanted to listen. Always before she had been there, encouraging Lenka to run to her, reassuring her, supporting her, loving her. Or so she had pretended. Where was she now? Where had she been these past weeks? Anna had deserted her, and now she had no-one, no-one at all to turn to.
And through the miserable anger, through the resentment a question nagged at the back of her mind, too terrible, too frightening to be faced, and answered.
Strange Are the Ways Page 13
