Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  And, having come so far, she had no reason whatsoever to doubt her ability to do that.

  * * *

  Like Anna, who reluctantly decided against travelling to Russia in the face not just of the fierce winter but of a faintly alarming downturn in her husband’s usually entirely dependable health, Yelena attended neither wedding, but for a different reason; in her bitterness she had little or no contact with her family, and anyway, she was pregnant again. She was in the fourth terrible year of her marriage, and in that time she had produced one living child, her daughter Tonia, born just nine months after the wedding. There had been four other pregnancies; this was her fifth. On the day in her seventh month that with cold-blooded lust her husband attempted the rape that, pregnancy or no, invariably followed the more savage of his beatings, she produced a knife, long, thin and deadly, which she had procured with bleak forethought from the kitchen. She held it out before her, braced in her two hands, steady as a rock. ‘Get away from me, you pig,’ she said, calmly. ‘Or I swear I’ll kill you.’

  He stepped back, startled.

  ‘I’m carrying this child to its full term.’ She moved carefully around him, putting the bed between them. ‘You’ve murdered four. You aren’t having this one. Nor any other. If you ever touch me again – ever, you understand? – you’ll never sleep safe again. Sooner or later, somehow, I’ll kill you. Believe me.’ The apartment in which they lived, more roomy than their original home since Donovalov had acquired – by less than salubrious means, Yelena suspected – a fairly senior post in the euphemistically named Ministry of the Interior, was empty, apart from Tonia, sleeping in her own bedroom down the hall. Though Donovalov was ready to pay for the couple of servant girls that he felt that his station demanded he would not have them sleep in; servants were notorious gossips. What he did in his own home was not for the eyes and ears of others. He recovered himself now. Eyes narrowed, bony hands spread, he moved, albeit warily, towards Lenka.

  She did not give an inch, only brought the knife up a little in a sharp, threatening gesture. ‘Back!’ she snapped. Years of sullen subservience, of pain and indignity, of terror and humiliation, were made almost worthwhile by the look on his face at that moment.

  ‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘It’s finished. Go and play your filthy games somewhere else. If you touch me again I promise I’ll kill you.’

  ‘You’re my wife,’ he said, his thin, precise voice, so detested, almost a whisper.

  She made no attempt to disguise her revulsion. ‘Your – what?’ she asked.

  There was a long, tense moment of silence. She could see him measure the distance between them, measure equally her resolve. The well-honed, narrow blade held steady. Her jaw throbbed from the last blow he had dealt her. The last blow.

  He straightened, contempt on his face. ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘No. On the contrary, I’m sane at last.’ She was astounded at the steadiness of her voice; she held his eyes with her own. ‘And I’m not about to fall downstairs, either,’ she added, very softly.

  The narrow face tightened. Fury flickered in the sharp, dark eyes.

  ‘Another – accident – might be difficult to explain away, don’t you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Fat bitch.’ The words were low, slow, vicious. ‘Sow! Look at you! Ugly bitch! Who’d want you anyway? You’re not worth pissing on.’ His voice rose a little, suddenly and horribly threaded with excitement.

  She took a steadying breath. This she had expected, but it made it no easier to bear; his tongue was as depraved and as brutal as was his belt and his favourite knotted leather harness strap.

  A movement by the door caught her eye. A small figure stood silhouetted against the light in the hall.

  ‘Stop it!’ she said, sharply.

  The venomous litany droned on. He told her in infinite detail what unspeakable punishments should be visited upon her now, and every day until she crawled to him for forgiveness.

  ‘Stop it!’ she shouted.

  Tonia ran to her, dodging around her father, scrambling across the bed to where her mother stood. It said much for the child’s presence of mind, to say nothing of her instant understanding of the situation, that she did nothing to deflect her mother’s concentration. The knife gleamed still and steady between them and the husband and father who stood beyond the barrier of the bed. Very carefully the little girl slid closer to her mother, one small hand automatically reaching for a handful of skirt, the other thumb as automatically and firmly in a small, thin-lipped mouth. Her hair was the colour of marigolds in the sun. Her pale blue eyes watched her father with a fixed expression of hatred.

  Faced with the two pairs of eyes his voice died.

  Lenka stood, straight and still despite the heaviness of her body, one hand on her daughter’s tousled red-gold head, the other holding the razor-sharp symbol of her final desperate revolt. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘I know you have places to go. I know there are people – women, God help them! – who are ready to pander to your –’ she let a small, blistering silence take the place of words ‘– unusual tastes. Go to them. Leave me alone. I’ll have none of you. Never again.’

  He resisted for a moment longer, glaring belligerently at her.

  Then he turned. Over his shoulder he said, ‘You’ve had an easy life until now, Yelena Victorovna. Money in your pocket. Food in your belly. Servants to light your fires.’ He went into the hall, reappeared in the doorway carrying hat, coat and scarf. ‘I think you might find things get a little – difficult – from now on.’

  ‘Just leave me alone,’ she said, simply. ‘That’s all I ask. Leave me alone.’

  He let his eyes run up and down her bloated figure, her shoulders broad almost as a man’s, her breasts huge, her belly sagging, her ankles puffy and swollen. He smiled into her plain, sallow face. ‘With pleasure,’ he said, and the malice could have been cut with a knife. ‘With very great pleasure.’

  For moments after the outer door slammed she stood quite still, Tonia still clinging to her skirt. The silence in the apartment was absolute; it sang in the ears like an invasive external sound. Outside, a dog barked.

  Very, very slowly she lowered the hand that held the knife. As slowly the muscles of her body relaxed.

  Tonia made a small sound.

  In a sudden and swift movement Lenka dropped the knife and swept the child up into her arms. Tonia clung to her, soundless, her small body bunched, her head buried deep into her mother’s shoulder. Crooning, Lenka rocked her a little, then moved around the bed to the door. Tonia clung tighter. In the child’s bedroom Lenka had to disentangle the tiny clinging fingers in order to tuck the little girl back into her bed. She sat beside her, holding her hand, murmuring words that were worse than meaningless, singing the songs of childhood, the silly, innocent songs that bore no resemblance whatsoever to this child’s life, until she slept. Then at last, stiff, exhausted, overburdened, she stood.

  Back in the bedroom she bent, picked up the knife that lay upon the floor, straightened to find herself looking into a mirror.

  A grotesque figure looked back at her. The wasted pregnancies had indeed taken their toll; it had not needed Donovalov’s malice to tell her that. The figure that had been statuesque was now, even distorted as it was by yet another pregnancy, gross. Worse, her face, drawn and bitter, was all but lost in rolls of fat. The knife glittered, ridiculously menacing, in her hand. She stood for a small, harsh moment, watching herself in the glass. Then she tossed the knife onto a table and made to turn away. Stopped.

  Beside the knife a letter lay, unopened, an English stamp fixed upon expensive stationery, with a small crest in the corner. Anna’s writing, as always, was clear and concise.

  Lenka picked up the letter, walked to the stove in the corner of the room and dropped the still sealed envelope into it.

  She had shut the ornamented lid of the stove almost before the paper had caught.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sasha Kolashki discovered the flint beneat
h his young wife’s kitten softness within a very short time of their marriage. The first shock came when he broached the subject of resigning his Commission and retiring to the country to run what little was left of the estate.

  They were on the train to Moscow on the first leg of their journey to Drovenskoye, the village some miles north-west of Moscow near the town of Sergiyev Posad, lovely seat of the Russian Orthodox Church, where the Kolashki estate was situated. Since he had not had the heart to disappoint the pretty little thing he had married so precipitately they were travelling in style, despite the cost, in a first-class Pullman sleeper with electric light, comfortable velvet chairs that would become beds when they were made up for the night and a bell to call the attendant. He had bought her chocolates from the Nevsky, silly fancies shaped like mice with bright glass eyes and long silver tails, which were at the moment the rage of young St Petersburg. The box lay, discarded, its contents half-eaten, upon the table. Rita sat idly turning the pages of a magazine, ignoring the drear and endless winter landscape through which they travelled, the lines of telegraph poles that flickered past the window with monotonous and mind-numbing regularity. She looked quite delightful in deep blue fur-trimmed velvet, a matching hat perched upon her fair curls, tiny blue leather boots peeping from beneath the hem of the well-cut skirt. She had bought the outfit, together with two others equally pretty, equally expensive, the week before. She had also purchased an extremely becoming dove-grey mourning dress to wear at Drovenskoye, a house still grieving for its master. He could in no way criticize her for that; but he must, he really must, have a word with her about their expenditure.

  He shifted a little in his seat. She looked up, caught his eyes upon her, smiled vaguely and turned back to her magazine. The new higher waistlines really were very flattering, especially to someone as slight and slim as she – and she would truly die if she didn’t acquire a couple of these hobble skirts that seemed to be so much in vogue in Paris and London. St Petersburg, for the normal shopper, could be so very provincial. At Madame Barry’s, where she had bought her new outfits last week, a charming girl with whom she had entered into conversation had been telling her of the shops in Paris. She lifted her head again. Sasha had spoken. ‘I’m sorry?’

  He stretched his long, well-shaped legs. ‘I was just saying that I must have a word with Mama about the running of the estate before I can take it over properly. If I resign my Commission it will still –’

  ‘What?’ The word was sharp. The magazine closed with a snap.

  He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. Weak Sasha might be but he was far from stupid. It had not passed him by that Margarita would not be happy about this particular idea. ‘I said – I was thinking I might resign my Commission – take over the estate –’ He had thought of little else since the death of his father. Nevertheless the words were tentative.

  Margarita was not. She stared in flat amazement. ‘Resign your Commission? Oh, Sasha, don’t be so utterly silly. Of course you are not to resign your Commission. I wouldn’t hear of it.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But, Sasha, darling, there can be absolutely no question of it. Surely you can see that? Goodness, whatever would people think? The moment your father dies you leave the army to run back to Mummy with your tail between your legs?’ She ignored his half-hearted attempt to interrupt. ‘Oh, certainly not, my dear. You shouldn’t make such jokes.’ She laughed a little, turned to catch her reflection in the window, pushed at a fair, stray curl with her finger. ‘Bury us in the country with nothing but pigs and chickens for company?’

  To say nothing of your mother and sister – oh, no! Margarita had plans, and those plans most certainly included the Drovenskoye estate; but not now, not yet. Not until she had her hands firmly upon the reins and had entirely vanquished the opposition she knew she was about to encounter. She was married to an officer of the Preobrajensky Guards, albeit at the moment a very junior one. She lived in St Petersburg, the very centre of the empire’s government. Sasha’s fellow-officers had welcomed the pretty little bride to their midst with quite charming enthusiasm; just the night before they had thrown a party for the newly-weds at which a young Uhlan officer had paid her quite the most extravagant compliments – oh, no. Margarita was not about to give this up to become a dependent daughter-in-law in the country. She would go to Drovenskoye when Drovenskoye was hers, and not before.

  ‘Absolutely not, my dear. And I’m quite certain that your mother will agree with me – why, surely, your poor father would turn in his grave to think of his son deserting his duty so?’ She smiled her sweetest smile. ‘I’m so very proud of you, my darling, you know that, don’t you? Do you know, that nice Vitaly Petrovich was saying last night that you’re quite the best horseman in the regiment –’

  Sasha opened his mouth, shut it again, returned her warm smile. Wondered what it would be like to make love in these narrow beds on a moving train. The matter of the Commission could wait, he supposed; army life wasn’t anywhere near so bad with a wife to come home to, despite the grim warnings of his commanding officer who had taken a terrible amount of persuading to grant his permission for the union.

  Margarita opened the magazine again. That was that. She would have no more of such nonsense. The very idea! She reached for a chocolate, with sharp teeth bit the head very neatly off a mouse.

  Sasha settled back in his chair and, a little gloomily, surveyed the bleak white landscape beyond the window. In truth he wasn’t at all sure if he could afford to leave the army; the pay wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. The small allowance Victor had been persuaded to give to Margarita barely kept her in shoes and stockings the way she spent it. And he had no real idea of the financial standing of the estate, though he had his darkest doubts. His father had been no farmer, that he did know; they had lived off his pension and what little the home farm produced. The pension now presumably had stopped and he wasn’t sure there was any other source of income. He supposed he’d have to get in touch with that dry old stick Malenkov, the family lawyer.

  Margarita shut the magazine, tossed it onto the seat beside her. ‘I’ve had a wonderful idea.’ She smiled, dazzlingly, leaned across between the seats to kiss his cheek, lightly.

  ‘Oh?’ He could not resist that smile. He trapped her small hand in his. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Instead of going straight on to Drovenskoye, why don’t we spend a day or two in Moscow? There are some wonderful shops – and we do so need some new curtains and furniture for that dreary little sitting room of ours, don’t you think? I do so want to make it just perfect for you. And it would be such fun. Sasha darling – do say yes?’

  ‘I – we promised Mama we’d be at Drovenskoye tomorrow –’

  ‘Oh, surely she wouldn’t mind?’ Margarita pouted prettily. ‘We could send a telegram, tell her we’ve been held up. Just a day or so, Sasha dear; it is our honeymoon, after all, isn’t it?’ She dropped her voice a little, leaned to him to whisper in his ear, ‘We could stay overnight in an hotel. We could dine by candlelight, and then –’ she blushed a little, dropped her eyes ‘– go to bed.’ She almost laughed at the spasmodic movement of his hand upon hers at that; almost, but not quite. She flickered a glance at him, half-shy, charmingly daring. ‘We could pretend that we aren’t married at all!’ She threw back her head, covering her face with her hands, gurgling with laughter. ‘Oh, how wicked! Do say we can, Sasha. Please?’

  They stayed in Moscow. They shopped in the Gostini Dvor, and in Muir et Merilese, the first department store to have opened in Russia. They browsed among the stalls and street traders, they ate at the famous, and outrageously expensive, Slavianski Bazaar. Sasha spent money like water, rewarded amply by his bride’s unassumed delight and happiness, the open affection with which she cajoled and teased him. It was, after all, he kept telling himself, their honeymoon.

  Only with Rita sleeping like a tired and contented child beside him after they had made love in the huge bed in the luxurious suite th
at the hotel manager, to Margarita’s delight, had insisted was the only fit accommodation for the Excellency and his young wife, did he lie looking into darkness, counting the cost of their extravagance, and trying to ignore a small, gnawing anxiety.

  * * *

  The following afternoon the long, wood-burning train pulled slowly to a stop at a ramshackle country station, stood puffing impatiently for just long enough for two passengers and their luggage to disembark, then, shooting sparks into the gathering dusk, chugged and clanked away along the long, curving track towards Sergiyev Posad.

  Margarita, who throughout the uncomfortable ride from Moscow had made absolutely no attempt to curb her growing nervy bad temper, tapped her booted foot upon the icy platform and pulled the collar of her fur shuba up about her face. It was bitterly cold. Flurries of fine snow flew in the chill wind. ‘Where the devil is everyone?’ she asked, peevishly. ‘Surely there should be someone to meet us? You did send the telegram, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I did. You know I did. The train’s very late – perhaps –’

  ‘That’s a reason to be here, not a reason not to be.’ She turned and marched towards a small wooden hut that stood at the end of the deserted platform, leaving Sasha to pick up the luggage and follow. As she approached the door opened and a wizened man in a battered sheepskin coat peered out, his eyes going past Rita to Sasha, his lined face almost splitting apart in a gap-toothed grin. ‘Master Sasha! Hey, Yuri! It’s them!’

  ‘Pavel, you old bear!’ Sasha dropped the cases, slapped the man on the shoulder, laughing. ‘And Yuri!’

  ‘Young master.’ A huge man in moth-eaten fur shuba and a ragged fur cap appeared at the door of the hut, grinning hugely. ‘You’re late.’ To Margarita’s astonishment the man used the familiar ‘thou’ in his speech.

  ‘The train, Yuri, the train! When did you ever know the Moscow train to arrive on time?’ Sasha stopped. Both men’s eyes were upon Margarita, polite, sharply curious. ‘My wife,’ he said, the words still novel enough to bring simple pleasure in the saying of them. ‘Margarita Victorovna. Rita, this is Pavel, our station master and Yuri Petrovich, an old friend and comrade.’