‘Yes, or almost two weeks now. I haven’t done anything about it. I don’t know who they are.’ He hoped it was someone from Tomlinovich’s gang, someone who might protect them.
She held the smoke in and put the top over the bowl, took the pipe out of his grasp as he nodded that yes, it was enough. She got to her feet and vanished in the darkness toward the kitchen. Ryzhkov let his eyes slip towards the grate, pulled the quilt up to his chin. All in all, considering the chill of the room he was very comfortable.
He had never taken hashish before. But among Vera’s crowd it was all the rage, sometimes mixed with opium as a way to enhance the effect, she had told him. He didn’t notice any change at all apart from the rawness in his throat, the curious sweet smell that permeated everything in his apartment, perhaps a feeling of lethargy if anything.
She returned with a little bowl-shaped glass tumbler of hot Georgian plum brandy and passed it to him so that he’d stop coughing. Now a whole different family of smells filled his head, and the brandy warmed a long column down his centre as he sipped.
‘That’s better, isn’t it.’
‘Mmmm …’
‘So, these people that you think you see—’
‘I don’t think I see them. They’re there.’
‘Fine, fine. These people who are there, they just follow you around, they don’t do anything else? They don’t try and knock you on the head, steal your wallet?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘You don’t think this is a little fanciful, perhaps a way of making your own trials and tribulations greater than they really are so that you can feel pity for yourself? You’re sure you’re not just imagining—’
‘Vera,’ he said firmly. ‘I work in this business, they’re out there, I assure you.’
‘Well, as long as they’re not hurting you?’ She shrugged. ‘So what?’
‘Have you noticed anybody, anybody strange or different hanging around the club?’
She laughed. ‘We’re the centre of strangeness, if you were going to buy a cartload of strangeness, the Komet is where you’d begin your shopping.’
‘Mmmm …’
In the lead-up to Christmas there had been a spate of men dressed as women, and vice-versa, all lured in by Khulchaev’s extravagant Song of the Sandwich, which cleverly managed to combine traditional Russian folk melodies with the rhythms of the South Seas. Vera had played the High Princess of Tahoo, a rather naive young thing who ended up being cannibalized by the other temple virgins for the sin of being seduced by a young Russian merchant seaman. She had dyed her hair jet-black and caked herself in dusky body make-up for the part. Pyotr had stared at her the whole time, hypnotized, unable to take his eyes off her. She liked it, liked having him there. It was flattering.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, frowning. ‘Two people like us. I think that’s the real strangeness,’ she said looking up at him now. Serious. ‘You know? Maybe we’ve made a mistake. Or two. Or lots of mistakes.’
He looked at her. Wanted to say something, but all he did was shrug.
‘I know what I did, Pyotr. I know my mistakes and my crimes,’ she said, straightening up, looking at him levelly. ‘And if I hurt someone … I’ll pay, I don’t mind paying. I’ll make it up to them if I can.’
‘Yes.’
‘But maybe it’s not me that has to make the penance, maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the guilty one, the one that’s going to have to die for everybody else’s sinning? Did you ever think of that?’
‘No. I’m not that important. And I only want to save a very small number of people,’ he said, reached up and touched her cheek. ‘But everything I do is dangerous. Everywhere I go has bad consequences and I don’t think it’s fair for you to follow me around—’
‘Oh! I’m following you, now, is that it? I’m suddenly a clinging vine?’
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘I wonder,’ she said, her head tilted over and assessing him.
‘What?’
‘We might not have a future, you and I.’
‘That’s what I’m talking about.’
‘All right then …’ She left and went into the kitchen. He heard her fiddling with things, a kettle being filled, drawers being opened. A moment later she was back.
‘We’re going forward in time.’ Beside them she’d placed a little table for the hookah and the brandy. Close enough to be handy from the little bed they had made there in front of the furnace. She did things like this, he thought. She would jump the rails and avoid talking about whatever subject you were on. Slippery. Maybe she was the kind that thought that if only she kept moving nothing could hurt her.
‘Relax, let your body slumber …’ She reached over and with her fingertips massaged his face, closing his eyes, her touch somehow eerily blending with the bones in his skull.
‘Are you warm enough?’
‘Mmm …’ He was warm enough, he was hot even.
‘Good.’ She had climbed astride him so that she could massage him better, her fingers dipped in a fragrant oil that filled his nose with the scent of flowers and mint. She was wearing the jade pendant he had given her, a simple hoop carved to represent a snake biting its own tail. It hung on a thin satin ribbon she’d found, nestled precisely between her breasts, sending off a series of hypnotic green glints in the candlelight.
‘Just let yourself be open, and leave the physical plane, and be open to the influences, to the Sun and the Moon and Water and Fire … and you are free of all earthly desires …’ she intoned.
‘Mmm …’
‘Concentrate.’ She rose slightly and he heard her reaching for things. His eyes opened and the room was full of halos. She had brought around a bucket of melted snow she had taken from the window ledge and a little ladle of melted wax.
‘Are you ready to learn your future?’
‘Um … I think so, yes.’
‘Say the magic word, Abara-Kadabra!’
‘Abara-Kadabra!’ he said importantly, trying to copy her theatrical inflections.
‘Good. Now take my hand; careful, the ladle is hot— and pour in half the wax—’ He reached out and together they poured a stream of wax into the centre of the bucket of freezing water.
‘Now … for me, too. Since you’re seeing threats everywhere, and so concerned about my welfare, and worried because I’m such a burden … Abara-Kadabra!’ she said and poured in the last portion of wax. Together they peered in the bucket.
On the surface of the water two twisted, yellow shapes spun like twin galaxies. Carefully she took one of the sculptures out of the cold water, held it between them.
‘It looks like …’ He studied it as she turned it over on her palm, peered at it, frowning. It looked like a fungus or a yellowish root.
‘This is a lion … a puma. This is your animal nature coming to the fore,’ she said quietly.
‘I’m going to be a lion in the future?’
She gave him a look that could put out a candle. ‘You may become meat for the lion, you may become the hunter of a lion. Let’s see, it may even be a lioness.’ She turned the wax over and looked on the other side. ‘No, it’s a boy lion, see? It has a prick. Do you think that’s funny?’
He shrugged and tried not to smile.
‘Maybe you’re being followed by the lion, have you thought of that? You may have to kill the lion, you may have to climb a tree to escape the lion. Maybe you won’t escape, maybe that’s your future. Since you’re a scoffer you probably won’t take the necessary precautions.’
‘What precautions?’
Now it was her turn to shrug. ‘Stay off the savannah, maybe. How should I know? It’s your future, after all.’
‘Fine, then, what’s this one all about?’ He had pulled her wax future out of the cold water. When it had hit the water, it had flattened and spread suddenly like a spiny sea creature. ‘It looks like a starfish,’ he said.
‘No, that cannot be, Gloriana told me I am not a water creature. I
am of the air, I am ether.’
‘What does ether look like?’
‘Ether has no appearance. Ether has a quality, ether has an effect. It makes you see visions, makes your consciousness evaporate. It kills your pain. But this …’ She took the odd little figure from his hand, turned it over and over and inspected it from all angles.
‘I know,’ she said, finally. ‘It is the Sun. It is the gift of life.’ She turned and fastened her eyes on his. Her royal look.
‘So, are you pregnant?’
‘I may be. What’s it to you?’
He could not keep looking at her, let his eyes fall to the little sun in her hand. She was right, he thought; it even had a closed-up little face on one side, like a sleeping newborn. ‘I don’t know … maybe you are going to create life … at some point in your future.’
‘Perhaps I am.’ She looked down at her belly, put one hand across her navel as if to comfort something that might be growing inside. ‘But I don’t see any children in my future,’ she finally said. Her voice was grave.
‘No?’ She still hadn’t looked up at him but had begun rubbing her belly in little slow circles.
‘Do you think it would be a good thing for me to have a child?’ She finally raised her eyes.
‘If you wished, yes.’ And when she didn’t answer, he went on with a little more certainty. ‘I think so, yes. I think you would be a good mother, Vera.’ Her eyebrows arched at that.
‘Oh, really? Why is that? Am I especially qualified?’
‘I think you are a good person,’ he said to her, meaning it. Meaning every word of it.
‘There would be no father.’ She turned her head away, maybe she was laughing at him.
‘There has to be a father.’
‘No. I may be the new Virgin Mary. After all, this is still Christmas. It may have just happened, just now.’
‘About an hour ago, maybe.’
‘Oh, so you are God the Father?’
‘You have to admit—’
‘You’re growing impertinent.’ She had put down the little wax sun, and bent over him, her breasts were just brushing his chest. He was starting to be full of earthly concerns again.
‘You do not own me. You cannot go where I go,’ she said, very seriously.
‘Fine.’
‘Say it.’
‘I do not own you, Vera.’
‘Good, go on.’
‘I cannot go where you go.’
‘You can never go there.’
‘Never?’
‘Never, ever.’ She had taken his lower lip between her teeth, bit him slowly at first and somehow changed it into a kiss. Outside in the stairwell he heard old Mrs Panych’s son beating a carpet over the banister. In the street there was the bell ringing as a tram pulled up to the stop, in the courtyard he could hear echoing voices of the porter and his friends singing a bawdy song. Outside were the watchers, outside were conspiracies, outside was death and mayhem. A string of fireworks exploding. The cries of monsters and cascading horror. Church bells were ringing, hymns were being sung to the new year. People were giving alms to the poor, ignoring the news, drinking too much, laughing too loudly. Going to sleep in anticipation. Would the snows cover it all?
She let go of his lip, pulled away only an inch.
‘No, you cannot go where I go,’ she breathed.
TWENTY-FIVE
In less than a week, Tomlinovich had learned enough from the Lavrik documents, that he felt ready to have Vera and Larissa brought in for questioning. Despite Ryzhkov’s attempts to set conditions for both of the women, there was no argument allowed, and because they still didn’t trust him they kept him in the dark. He could only assume that Fauré was bringing them in because he had come up with possible suspects for Mr X and needed verification from witnesses.
He spent the next few days like a man in a trance, collating dead files at 17 Pushkinskaya, having dozy conversations with Zezulin about nothing. Going about his sham Okhrana business, outwardly the investigator of old, but inside dreading what he was going to have to put Vera through.
He delayed everything to the last moment; went to his barber where the talk was about the Greeks and what great fighters they were, the glory of the Spartans, the conditions of the mountain passes, too hot or too cold, the nature of betrayal and why it seemed to thrive amongst the Balkan peoples, if the Treaty of Bucharest really meant a new era of peace or if the creation of Albania complete with a grafted-on royal family, would make any difference. Wonderment over the British suffragists and their violence, over the deaths of Isadora Duncan’s poor children, over the severity of the winter, the prospects for war in the new years. ‘The world is going over the precipice in a basket of its own shit,’ one of the barbers said and Ryzhkov had to agree.
In the cold, short afternoon he left work early, had dinner in a cheap restaurant, and then, screwing up his courage, went to the Komet.
… my raga, my saga, my feeling for the sea-a-a
… my party, my corner, my scratching at my flea-a-a
In the corner Vera and the Komet girls were going over the same chant, a ragged chorus of sopranos. Izov watching, Ryzhkov sitting against the wall peering into the rehearsal room. He had become a trusted customer and Izov regularly consulted him about business affairs when he stopped in for coffee or a konyak. They discussed finance and the international situation. The Stock Market was bouncing all over the map with speculation after the fragile peace in the Balkans. It all served to explain, Izov said, why he’d had been forced to increase the price of coffee by three kopeks.
‘In the morning it’s worth it.’
‘Hey, those little birds, they sound pretty good, eh?’ Izov remarked on his way back into the kitchen. Ryzhkov went to the entrance to the studio, stood there and watched the singers as the Professor coaxed them through the song again.
‘Yes, they’re getting better,’ he agreed. Izov laughed as if he couldn’t believe it, waving his towel at him. ‘So, remember and tell all your friends—a new show each Friday! Don’t forget monsieur.’
‘No, I won’t,’ Ryzhkov called back. He wouldn’t. Even with Fauré’s demands hanging over him, she was the only bright spot. Vera had insisted that if he would only relax, everything would work out. It was part of her newest preoccupation, some sort of esoteric Eastern philosophy that had begun to sweep through the ranks of the city’s artists.
‘—Well, you may scoff, but I know that when I stop thinking that’s when I do some of my best work.’ And when he looked at her, she lifted her chin into the air, poked him in the chest with one black fingernail. ‘Say nothing,’ she warned.
He tried to follow her advice. Sat in the smoky atmosphere and made sporadic conversation with Izov, who would put in a comment and then fly away to deal with another customer. He finally got a minute with her alone. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he managed to say, dreading every word of it.
‘Fine, but not now, I have a long rehearsal for this dog that Dmitri is trying to turn into an eagle.’
‘Vera …’
‘What?’ She made a little grab his sleeve, frowned. ‘What?’
‘In another day or two, or soon anyway, I’m not sure when exactly … anyone who was there that night has to come in for questions.’
‘Ahh …’ She gave him a hard look, and then suddenly smiled. It was a tight smile with no happiness. Almost a grimace. He could see her fighting not to cry. ‘And when it all happens because of the way things have …’ He stopped. Sighed. ‘When they bring you in, I can’t be involved,’ he said quietly.
She gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, you can’t be involved. Now you are no longer involved?’
‘Look, I’m not even supposed to tell you, and they’re not going to let me be there. So, I won’t be in the room to—’
‘To what, to help me? To protect me? Yes, you do a fine job at that, don’t you?’
‘Vera …’
‘I’m so lucky. A boyfriend who’s a real protector.
I have to go to work now.’ She turned and headed for the dressing-rooms.
‘Another, Monsieur Ryzhkov?’ Izov called to him as she left and he turned slowly in the room. A stage-door lover with no destination.
‘Why not,’ he said. Why not drink it all.
A man had come in and was loudly talking about how the government was heading for a crisis. The Tsar was about to sack all the ministers. Furthermore, he had it, yes, on good authority, that soon there was to be a renewed war with Japan. ‘The heathens want all of Siberia! After that they’re going to conquer all of China, and then—’
Izov brought him a fourth dizzying konyak, it was something new he had acquired from Riga. He took a sip of the eye-watering potion and let the conversations fade. Larissa came out and gave him a wink, Kushner a tight little nod. They were off to some revolutionary meeting. There was a time when he would have waited and followed them, discovered the address, stood in the rain for hours and, with numbed fingers, noted the carriage numbers, descriptions, and times of everyone entering and leaving.
But not tonight.
Across the room a second hysteric joined in. There was a new crisis! In order to comfort the population and quieten the strikes that were breaking out lately, the Tsar had promised to lower the tax on vodka, but, because the prime minister was worried about the finances Tsar Nicholas was about to fire the prime minister. ‘Any day now …’ the second man assured them. ‘Any day, now. You wait and see!’
The world was insane. Sitting there he almost laughed, suddenly aware of the absurdity surrounding him. Everything was going crazy, he thought. The empire was crumbling, just like Kostya had been predicting. War and revolution were in the air and he found himself engulfed in a wave of foreboding, filled with a sudden sense of impending disaster. Let go, he told himself. Why be the only sane person in the asylum? Do what she said—think of nothing, nothing at all …
Field of Mars Page 21
