Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  It was on the fourth day that they quarrelled.

  Sasha had been morose and nervy all day. Four precious days were gone; there were only four left – four days and four nights before he faced the terror again. Four days of empty conversation, of empty lovemaking, of an empty mind and heart. He could not stand the thought.

  They were supposed to be going to supper, with friends, at a small restaurant still rumoured to have a cellar full of fine French wines and a proprietor who was ready, for a price, to flout the war-time law prohibiting the sale of alcohol and allow his customers to sample them. Margarita sat at her small dressing table, taming with practised fingers the curling mass of her hair and piling it gracefully onto her head. She had not for a moment contemplated the more practical and less time-consuming shorter hairstyles that were becoming the vogue. She was still dressed in the filmy robe, belted at the waist, that she wore before she dressed. The rose-coloured satin was laid across the bed. Happy as always to be going out, always an adventure, always an opportunity to see and to be seen, she applied herself to her task, her face attractively flushed, her eyes shining with excitement. Sasha stood in the shadows, watching her, a glass of vodka, his second and now only half full, in his hand.

  ‘You’re more beautiful than ever,’ he said.

  She raised her eyes to look at him in the candlelit mirror. Her flush of pleasure was entirely natural, her happiness at the compliment entirely unstudied. ‘Thank you.’ She had grown used to his changed looks, his rather quieter demeanour. She had in fact to her own surprise come to realize, in face of the covert glances of other women, that in some strange way he had become more, not less, attractive. The slightly shabby uniform that at first had offended her had, she had been startled to see, been treated as a badge of honour by others. She smiled at him, with genuine, if shallow, warmth. If he could just contrive to be a little less – intense – a little less physical – the blush grew, hotly, in her face. She reached for her swan’s-down powderpuff, was so intent upon her reflection that she did not notice his approach until he was behind her, tall in the shadows for all his slightness of build, strong hands clamped uncomfortably hard upon her shoulders. She shifted a little, shaking herself free. Smiled uncertainly into the deeply shadowed face. Her stomach shifted, churning uncomfortably. She knew that look. Surely – oh surely! – he would not make his horrible demands on her now? She was bathed and clean, perfumed, her hair arranged to pretty perfection. In God’s name, why must he spoil it? What did he want of her? It was Petra’s night off. They were alone in the apartment. She had so desperately hoped he would not take advantage of that, at the very least not until later.

  He laid his hand against her cheek, felt the softness of her skin against the flat, calloused palm. ‘Rita,’ he said, softly. ‘Darling. Why don’t we stay here tonight?’

  She smiled, brightly, into the mirror, a muscle in her jaw jumping. ‘Don’t be silly, Sasha dear. We’ve made arrangements. The others –’

  ‘Won’t miss us.’ He leaned closer, eyes bright and probing. She hated the excitement she could see in them, feel in the urgent warmth of his body, so close to hers. ‘I could go to the little cafe down the road, bring something back. You wouldn’t need to dress – you’re so beautiful just as you are – we’ll eat here, just the two of us. We’ll talk –’

  ‘Well, goodness –’ uneasily she moved, leaning closer to the mirror, away from him, ostentatiously rearranging a curl ‘– we can talk at the restaurant, can’t we? And what, for heaven’s sake, have we been doing all day? Sasha, please, don’t do that – you’re disarranging my hair –’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ He straightened, violently, the vodka slopping from his glass.

  ‘Sasha, do be careful!’ In her panic and in her effort to control it her voice came out as cold as the first night of ice upon the river. She might have been talking to an ill-behaved child. ‘You’ve splashed vodka on my robe –’

  His hand, the fiercely strong hand of a horseman, and one who could curb the most recalcitrant of mounts, was suddenly, agonizingly, about her right wrist. She felt the bones give painfully under the pressure. Instinctively, difficult though it was, she knew not to struggle. She held herself still, her body arched rigidly against him. ‘Did I now?’ His voice was very quiet. His grip did not relax. ‘Well. Should I suck it dry? Perhaps that at least is something I should get for my money? And my name?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Her voice, despite her effort at control, was a breath of pain. Yet still, with an understanding that was primeval in its depth, she did not struggle.

  ‘Of course you don’t.’ Slowly he was forcing her body backwards against him, her back arched against his raised knee. With the hand that still held the glass, quite gently despite the brutal grip of his other hand, he bared her breasts. The candlelight flickered on the smooth skin, the darkened, raised nipples. The vodka glass was poised and steady. His face was expressionless. With a hand still savagely gentle he rubbed the glass against the bared teats, ran it, cold and hard, down the open front of the robe to rest on her belly. She sobbed, once, turned her head from him and was still. ‘In Vladivostok I went to a brothel,’ he said, reflectively, ‘where for good coin you could drink your liquor from any receptacle you wished – the more imaginative the better – it was a most entertaining evening.’ The glass tilted. The clear liquid splashed upon her breasts. He bent his head, licked the stuff from her skin, sucked it as it dripped from the taut nipples.

  She lay against him, ice-cold and rigid, aware of nothing but disgust and shock and a humiliation so deep it could never be forgiven.

  He lifted his head.

  There was a long moment of still silence.

  He let her go, very suddenly, throwing her from him, turning away from her.

  Shivering she sat up, pulling her robe around her, hunching her shoulders against him.

  In the lamplit shadows of the room he was moving, with the sharp and violent movements of anger. It took a few shocked minutes before she was recovered enough to understand. ‘What – what are you doing?’

  He had thrown off his evening suit, tossed it in a heap upon the floor, had pulled on a pair of old corduroy trousers and was dragging his battered English shooting jacket from its hook in the wardrobe. ‘I’m going out.’

  She turned, aghast. ‘You can’t! We’ve made arrangements!’

  ‘Unmake them.’ Stone-faced, he was ramming his arms into the jacket, shrugging it onto his shoulders.

  She stood up. In her whole life she had never felt such an overwhelming fury. ‘Stop this! This minute! Do you hear me? Take those stupid clothes off! We are dining with the Melaknikovs. They are expecting us. I will not have you –’

  ‘You won’t have me. Full stop.’ He rummaged in the pocket of his suit, transferred a handful of notes and coin. ‘So why should you care what I do or where I go?’ He turned to the door.

  She barred his way like a fury. ‘You can’t! You can’t!’

  ‘Stop me,’ he said, very calmly and with an intonation that, for all her anger, made her step sharply back from him.

  In the quiet that followed her eyes, fierce upon his, suddenly sharpened. ‘You’re going to her, aren’t you?’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  He did not answer.

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  There was no need, no point, in questioning the pronoun. ‘It’s none of your business,’ he said.

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘I don’t give a bugger’s arse what you think.’ It was quite deliberate, as brutal as his grip upon her arm that had raised welts that already were turning blue.

  Still she barred the way. ‘You’re disgusting. You’re – you’re drunk – filthy!’

  ‘All the more reason to be rid of me, I’d have thought.’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  He sighed, ostentatiously, waiting.

  She was in tears now, her face distorted. ‘Sasha, why can’t you be nice to m
e? Why can’t we be like we used to be? Why can’t you just – just love me without constantly touching – pawing –’

  He shrugged. ‘Because I’m disgusting. And filthy. Because I’m a man, for Christ’s sake. Margarita, are you going to let me out of that door or do I have to use the window?’ The sudden calm was unnatural.

  ‘You’re not going to that woman. I won’t let you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’re not leaving me, Sasha. You can’t! Remember what happened last time! Remember what I went through!’

  He pushed past her and out through the door. As he ran down the stairs her voice pursued him. ‘I’ll make you pay for this, Sasha! I’ll make you pay!’

  Blinded by anger, driven by need, he hardly remembered the journey across the city.

  He walked very fast down towards the river, swung aboard a clanking yellow tram, stood swaying amongst the silent, poorly dressed passengers as it crossed the bridge, rattled through drab streets, past looming factories and depressing tenements. One thought and one thought only filled his mind; let her be there. Please, God, just let her be there. Let me find her. Just once more. And let her be as I remember her.

  * * *

  Alone in the apartment behind the Liteini Prospekt Margarita cried herself in a passion of fury to exhaustion, beating her fists upon the pillows that were crumpled and drenched with tears.

  When the storm had eased she turned to lay on her back, small sobs still catching in her throat, staring into the lamplit shadows.

  He was hateful! Hateful!

  She brooded upon revenge. How most could she hurt him, as he had hurt her? Should she leave? Desert him, as he deserved? Wouldn’t he be frantic with worry if he came back to an empty apartment, not knowing where she was, what had happened to her? Wouldn’t he be sorry, then?

  She could not admit, even to herself, that she did not know, could not predict how this new, changed Sasha would react.

  There was, too, another consideration. Suddenly in control of herself she found herself thinking, long and hard. They’d had news that Sasha’s mother had been poorly. Margarita had sent suitably caring messages, had ensured that the two women closeted at Drovenskoye understood that it was impossible for her to travel in such dangerous times and then had spent long and happy hours constructing daydreams about the future. She had conjured into her mind the house, the servants, the estate; had as determinedly shut from her memory the recollection of shabbiness, of penny-pinching, of neglect. She had lovingly reconstructed her dream of becoming a great lady. The Lady of Drovenskoye, gracious and beautiful. Loved – worshipped – by all. No-one was going to take that from her. She sat up now, drew her knees to her breast, her arms wrapped about them, one hand nursing her bruised and painful wrist, eyes narrowed. No. She wouldn’t leave Sasha. She’d never leave him. But she’d bring him to heel, see if she didn’t! He could not have changed so very much. She’d handled him before, and she’d do it again. And God help him if he tried to fight her. There were things he could give her that no-one else could; and who would grace better his home and his life? Sasha was hers, her prince, her salvation. Of course I’m sure. I made him up. I invented him.

  It was the beastly war, of course. He was overwrought. Not himself. He’d come back to her. Certainly he would.

  In the meantime – just in case – she must think, constructively and clearly. She needed weapons, any that might come to hand; and once she found them, if necessary she would use them.

  * * *

  It took Sasha a full hour to find the apartment block in which Valentina lived; he had reckoned without the dreary sameness of the roads, the corners, the buildings of this depressing and overcrowded part of the city. Even when he stood at last in the gloomy corridor outside what he hoped was her door he was not entirely sure of himself. He had been certain, downstairs, that he had recognized the grimy lobby, the broken, filthy tiles of the floor; now his confidence deserted him. He hesitated for a long moment, then lifted his hand and rapped sharply with his knuckles upon the battered door.

  Nothing happened.

  He rapped again, loudly, urgently, willing her to be there.

  There was no movement, no sign of life.

  He swore, intensely and viciously, a searing stream of blasphemy that was all he could think of to keep the tears from his eyes. In fury he punched at the door, hurting his knuckles, turned, leaning against it, head tilted backwards.

  ‘Not there. She’s not there.’

  He jumped. The door opposite had opened a crack. A gaunt old woman peered with black, button eyes from the shadows. ‘Not there,’ she said again, and the door began to close.

  Sasha was across the corridor in a flash, his foot slamming against the closing door. ‘But – wait – she does live here? This is Valentina’s room?’ He had not realized until now that he had never discovered her full name. ‘Valentina!’ he said again, urgently, ‘she lives here?’

  The old woman grunted. It could have meant anything.

  Sasha exerted his strength against the door. Grumbling, the woman gave way. Her dirty face was vindictive and distrustful.

  Sasha scrabbled in his pocket, brought out a coin. ‘Valentina? She lives in that room?’

  The beady eyes were fixed upon the coin. ‘Yes. On and off.’

  ‘Do you know where she is now?’

  Narrow, shawled shoulders lifted in a shrug. A dirty, shaking hand reached for the coin.

  Sasha held on to it for a moment. ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

  Another shrug. ‘Sooner or later, I daresay.’ The coin was spirited from his fingers and disappeared into the ragged skirt. He stepped back. The door closed.

  He stood for a moment, looking at it, face sombre. Then he turned back to Valentina’s door, leaned against the wall beside it, slid down upon his haunches and set himself to wait.

  * * *

  He was dozing when he heard the voices; two of them, one a man’s, sharp and concise, and the other the voice, light and clear, that he had heard so often in his head in these past mad months.

  ‘All right, all right! If you all insist. Though, honestly, Lev, I –’ Valentina stopped.

  Sasha stood, very carefully, painfully slowly and with no great grace. His right leg was dead as a doornail and he was chilled to the bone. He said nothing.

  Valentina stood at the top of the stairs, her hand on the chipped banister, struck to stillness and silence by the sight of him. She was staring, wary and afraid, as if he were some sprite sprung from the air to startle her. Her companion, a shabby young man with a lean, intense face, looked from one to the other, faintly enquiring, faintly suspicious, wholly displeased.

  Valentina turned to him. ‘Er – Lev – if – if you don’t mind?’ Her voice had cracked a little oddly. She cleared her throat.

  He raised deliberately uncomprehending brows.

  ‘It seems – I have a visitor.’ Valentina gestured.

  There was a flicker in the young man’s dark face, a shadow of anger that as swiftly disappeared. ‘You were to deliver something to me,’ he said, his voice flat.

  ‘I – yes – of course – just come in. I’ll get them.’ She led the way to the door. She did not look at Sasha. Her companion did, long and hard. Sasha glared back belligerently. At this moment the devil himself could have challenged his right to be here, and Sasha would have fought him; and it showed in his eyes.

  The young man, Lev, hunched his shoulders, barged in front of Sasha, following Valentina into the room where she was bending over the table lighting a small oil lamp. Sasha followed, moved into the shadows, stood quiet and watching. He had not said a word.

  Valentina pulled open a drawer. ‘Here.’ She pulled out a sheaf of leaflets and thrust them at the other man. ‘That’s all that’s left, I’m afraid. Vasha’s got some more, I think, if you need them. But be careful.’

  ‘You’re telling me to be careful?’ Caught with her in the warm circle of lamp light the young man emphasiz
ed the pronouns very slightly, and smiled, easy and mocking. Valentina’s own answering smile flashed like a gleam of sunlight in the shadowed room. The small moment of intimacy set Sasha’s teeth on edge. He forced his hands, which had bunched into fists at his side, to relax; found a moment to reflect that lately his reactions were too swift, too violent. He pushed from him the sudden recollection of Margarita’s rigid, frightened face.

  ‘You’ll do as we suggested then?’ The young man was insistent.

  Valentina nodded, the smile still lingering. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You promise?’ His relief was obvious.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘When? When will you come?’

  She hesitated only for a moment. Her dark glance flicked to Sasha and away. ‘Tomorrow. If you really think it’s necessary.’

  ‘I do. We all do.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Then all right, I’ll come. I promise,’ Valentina said, gently.

  ‘Right.’ The young man hunched his shoulders, shoved his hands into his pockets, sent a sudden glowering glance at Sasha.

  Valentina stepped across to him and kissed his cheek, lightly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Lev. I promise.’

  He growled something and turned. She escorted him to the door. Sasha heard the murmur of conversation, Lev’s voice still sharp and unhappy, Valentina’s reassuring. There was a moment’s silence that could only have been a kiss, then the door shut and Valentina moved once more back into the pool of light cast by the lamp.

  She leaned her two hands upon the battered table that stood between them and watched him, levelly, for a very long time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last, suddenly uncertain, ‘I shouldn’t have come.’