The Red Staircase

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘Just as well, really,’ I observed. ‘Father Theo at St Andrew’s Cathedral says I am a bad pupil. Not that I would call the Russian Church a proselytising church exactly.’

  Peter laughed. ‘There speaks the Scotswoman again.’

  My reception into the Orthodox Church proceeded in a leisurely, calm fashion. In fact I got quite fond of my young instructor, Father Theophilus. He was plump and idle, but genuinely devout. Also sensible. ‘Faith must come with living,’ he said. ‘I can only explain, the rest must be for you.’ I used to fancy that he drank a little, and he certainly overate, but who would not in the increasing cold of the Russian winter? I wasn’t quite sure about his celibacy, either. He had a wife, I think, for there was a chubby little edition of himself that used to toddle after him occasionally when we met in a room at the back of St Andrew’s Cathedral.

  ‘You’d better go to St Andrew’s Cathedral,’ Dolly had advised. ‘They’re so nice over there. Sympathetic, you know.’ She added: ‘Of course, the neighbourhood is not quite what one could wish …’

  When I had got there I was surprised Dolly had ever visited the Cathedral, for Vassily Island was frankly slummy. Moreover, close to it was that perpetual institution, St Andrew’s Market. Sometimes after a talk with Father Theophilus I would stroll through the crowded lanes between the rows of stalls. I felt as though I was rubbing shoulders with Russia itself. Pedlars, stall-holders, beggars and shoppers, I absorbed their manners and faces with fascinated interest; I wanted to know them all. I loved to hear the snatches of conversation.

  ‘Buy this lovely little leg of Iamb. Take it home with you now and give your family a better meal than the Tsar gets.’

  ‘I’ll wring the hen’s neck while you watch. Now, what could be fresher than that?’

  Perhaps my baby hare, now flourishing comfortably in the capacious kitchens of the Denisov house, its neck un-wrung, had come from here. Ivan had certainly thought so. In fact, I had a look round to see if I could buy him a companion, but hares, or anyway white ones, seemed hard to find. Perhaps mine had been specially bleached.

  Walking through this market I had a startling encounter. It was a dusky afternoon, with the dim tapers already lighting up on the stalls and the braziers burning. Autumn it would have been still in Scotland, but it was winter here, and chili with it. Frozen water was already winking its way down the Neva, and soon the river would be solid enough to walk upon and then paths would be laid out on it for people to cross. But the market was lively this evening, with hawkers shouting their wares and the stall-owners leaning out and beckoning and trying to make a sale with me.

  ‘Come on, buy this beautiful shawl, lady. It will make even your beautiful face more beautiful. Oh, what eyes you have, bluer than sky in summer, this blue will suit you. Come on now, buy.’

  I never answered, because to answer was halfway to buying – but I could never resist smiling, which of course encouraged them almost as much, so that my progress was always marked by wheedling calls and shouts. There were cooked-meat stalls and bakers with trays of hot buns, and other stalls, much patronized by the men, selling drinks. The drinks were hot and produced red noses and cheeks in their drinkers. I never felt any temptation to linger by these stalls.

  Forming a separate group, in an enclave all their own, were the stalls where live animals were sold. Trays of tiny kittens, hutches of dozing puppies, boxes of fluttering birds. There was a ready sale for all of these. The poorer inhabitants of St Petersburg seemed to love their domestic pets. Here I sometimes lingered, in amusement, to watch the byplay: the little girl trying to persuade her mother to buy a kitten; the two young brothers triumphantly bearing away a puppy covered with ginger fur and with huge paws which gave promise of great size to come, while being assured by the stall-owner that the animal was guaranteed to live in a small flat ‘like a lamb’.

  Except for trying to sell me their wares, no one spoke to me or took any special notice of me. I was just a face in a crowd, and that was what I enjoyed. I was learning about Russia. And I was anonymous. Or so I thought until a day which seemed particularly dark, with a thin white mist drifting in from the river. The crowds round the booths selling drinks seemed thicker than usual, and the customers drunker. I could hardly blame them on such a raw day. A group came away from a stall as I passed. I hurried on. Then from behind me I heard a laugh, a deep, rich laugh, rippling from the chest. I turned round to look, half knowing whom I would see.

  A step behind me stood a tall, burly man. He was wearing a rich silk shirt open to the waist, with a fur-lined robe thrown over all. Soft leather boots reached to his thighs. Every garment was of the finest quality, but stained and soiled. His hair was uncombed and his beard matted.

  ‘You have come too far away from your own country, Baryshna. You should go home.’ He was rocking on his heels, still laughing deeply.

  ‘Father Gregory.’

  ‘You should go home,’ he said again. ‘To your own country.’

  It was a mistake to have spoken to him, silence would have been wiser as I knew too late.

  ‘You should go home, little lady. You are not safe here. And I am not safe while you are here.’

  He was speaking in Russian, but with a thick accent previously unknown to me. This, together with nervousness, meant that I followed what he said much less easily than usual.

  ‘I know my enemies,’ he rumbled on. ‘That is one faculty the good God gave me. I can tell them even when they sneak up behind.’

  ‘I’m not your enemy,’ I said stoutly.

  He laughed. ‘Little lady, you do not even know your own enemies, let alone mine. That is why I have got you here; to warn you. I think you don’t mean harm to Russia, but good. As I do, in spite of all you hear.’

  His drinking companions were with him, one on either side. Guards? Protectors? Or friends? One looked like a young peasant, the other a lad of education, but they were both equally drunk.

  I began to move away, but Father Gregory growled something to the others and I felt my skirt held. I tried to pull it away, but it was held tight by the peasant, on whose face was not a flicker of expression, and who was not even looking at me.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ said Father Gregory. ‘But not here. Inside.’ And he nodded his head towards the row of houses that bordered the market. ‘I have a room in one of those houses there. One of my rooms. I have little nests all over the town like the old rat I am.’ And his eyes glittered at me.

  ‘No!’ I was frantic. ‘I won’t come.’

  The peasant still hung to my skirt, drawing it towards him so that we were close together. The other man put his arm round my waist so tightly that the constriction made it difficult for me to breathe. I managed to gasp out ‘Help! Help!’ No one took any notice. They didn’t understand. I was calling out in English. But I don’t think they would have helped me even it they had understood my pleas. Father Gregory was known here, and I was not. In this world he was not a person to be interfered with by anyone.

  The men half pushed, half dragged me into the darkness behind the market stalls. Father Gregory followed behind. ‘I don’t wish you any harm, my little bird, so don’t flutter,’ he whispered in my ear. In a louder voice I heard him say: ‘Better blind the little bird so it can’t see,’ and a silk handkerchief, smelling strongly of musk and tobacco, descended on my head, covering my eyes and nose and robbing me of what little breath I had left.

  When it was whisked from my head I was in a narrow, high-ceilinged room which was crowded with old-fashioned furniture, including a great bed. Every surface was covered with small objects, photographs, china pots, wooden boxes and packets of cigarettes. Over all was dust, and every piece of over-decorated furniture looked severely battered and kicked. I was pushed up against one table which was itself pushed against the wall. My host pulled a low chair forward and straddled it as if he was riding a horse, leaning his chin on the top and staring at me. His eyes were bright and compelling; I wanted to look away an
d found I could not.

  I imagined myself describing the scene to Peter after-wards. I could almost hear him saying: ‘You should have driven to St Andrew’s or else taken Ivan with you. You should never have been walking down in the market on Vassily Island.’

  A small but heavy-looking metal and wooden box was within reach of my right hand; I considered picking it up, hurling it at the monk and running for the door. True, there still remained the two younger men, but of those one had lain down on the bed and the other was standing by the porcelain stove warming his hands.

  ‘Don’t try and fly away yet,’ said Father Gregory. ‘For I won’t let you.’ And he slapped his side and gave a loud laugh. ‘Let’s all have a drink. Boris, get off your backside and give us vodka all round.’

  Boris rolled off the bed, found the bottle of vodka which was under the bed, and poured out the spirit. There was only one glass which had to go round all four of us. They watched carefully while I drank mine. I could feel the strength of the spirit as it went down my throat, but the impact was no worse than whisky, and we used to be given that by Tibby sometimes in the winter as a precaution against taking cold.

  ‘For your looks, you have a strong head,’ said Father Gregory admiringly.

  I kept silent. I saw that although his companions were drunk and the monk was sober, on him – and certainly he had had a good deal of it before he came across me – the vodka had had no effect. His was the strong head.

  ‘I was waiting for you. You’ve been coming this way regularly, haven’t you? I know all about that.’

  I was still silent.

  ‘Your friends are not my friends,’ he said suddenly. ‘Slit my throat for me if they could. If they could. Yours too, if it suited them. Remember I said that. But I have eyes in the back of my head; I know my enemies. Remember that too. Get me in the end, no doubt. But not yet. Of that I have certain knowledge.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘The information comes in here. I need no one to tell me. You also know things of your own knowledge?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘But you have the power. You are a woman who owns power. Now I think that’s wrong. Women are good for one thing only; let them have power and they get into trouble. So will you. That’s why I’m warning you. I’ve taken a fancy to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘but frankly I’d rather you had not.’

  He gave me a wink and a belch simultaneously. ‘Oh, I’m a wicked sinner, I am. But may someone give me a word of warning in my hour of need as I have given you.’

  ‘I hope they do,’ I said, not really understanding him.

  ‘I shall go the way I have to,’ he said with philosophy. ‘Killed like a dog. But I’ve stretched out a hand to you, girl, so what will you give me in return? What can a woman give to a sinner like me?’

  He had ridden the chair towards me like a wooden horse, and now he abandoned it and stood in front of me.

  ‘Yes, I’m a wretched sinner; I repent regularly of my excesses. But the trouble with me is, I must have what I want. And I want you.’

  I took a step backwards, but like a good general was careful only to retreat where the way was open. I now had my back to the bed but I could see the door.

  He put a hand on my breast.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said.

  For answer he started to fondle me; so close he was now that I could smell the spirit on his breath and his own peculiar, rank animal smell. I could see my own image reflected in the gleaming protuberant iris of his eyes. Out of the corner of my eye I could also see that the other two, having stayed faithful to the vodka bottle, were now comatose.

  ‘Come to bed,’ he said. He gave me a little backward push.

  I was half incredulous of the position I found myself in, and in this was my salvation. Because I did not quite believe in my danger, my mind was not frozen with fear and I was able to act.

  He had thrown me off my balance. To steady myself I grabbed at the bedpost. A part of the ancient, neglected decoration on the post came away in my hand. I had a curving piece of wood in my clutch, and I could feel a nail in the end. I gripped it firmly and stabbed it sharply in one of his ears, rolling sideways as I did so.

  He gave a howl of pain and clapped his hand to his ear, trying to make a grab at me with his other hand. He had an enormous hand and it spread over my thigh, gripping a fold of my skirt. But I happened to be wearing a skirt I had sewn myself, and as Tibby had often pointed out, my sewing was careless. ‘You’re a flabby sewer, my dear,’ was how she put it, ‘and your clothes’ll fall off you one day, mark my words.’ I was glad of it now as a whole pleat ripped away.

  I had a moment of freedom and in it I leapt, literally jumping for the door. Thank God, it was unlocked, and I rushed through. Behind me I heard an angry roar, followed immediately by a deep, deep laugh and a shout, reaching out to me: ‘Remember, I am your friend, not your enemy.’

  The market outside was wrapped in fog which was growing thicker with every minute, but I was lucky, and on the edge of it, near the quay looking towards the Admiralty building, I managed to get a droshky and had myself driven home.

  Home. I was already beginning to call it home.

  When I got inside I examined my state. I was untidy, and my clothes were torn. I had been frightened and shocked, but I had come through unhurt except for a bruise on my hip and another on my left breast. Nothing had really happened, I was unhurt, but inside me a little flame of alarm had been set alight. This was the true damage. ‘Remember, I am your friend and not your enemy,’ he had called. What was I to make of that?

  At first I thought to rush and tell Dolly Denisov, but as I tidied myself and waited for the flush on my cheeks to subside, I thought that the proper person to tell was Peter. But the minutes ticked by as I sat in my room, letting my pulse quieten, and I knew I was not going to speak. I wasn’t going to say anything about it to anyone.

  ‘You look tired tonight, my dear girl,’ said Dolly when I met her later that evening. ‘It was ridiculous of you to walk to St Andrew’s Cathedral. You should have driven.’

  ‘I did drive back,’ I said.

  The winter routine in the Denisov household was taking its shape. Dolly was hardly ever at home in the evening. Sometimes she dined with us, but very often she was out. Peter usually joined us for dinner, even if he was absent all day. Then, occasionally, all four of us went out to a reception or a small party: there was nothing large in the way of entertaining at the moment. St Petersburg, although insatiably gay, was holding its energies in reserve for the short but brilliant winter season which centred on the New Year festivities.

  But Dolly went out alone to the houses of her smart friends, to play cards and gamble. I was just beginning to realize how much she gambled. ‘An inherited folly, I’m afraid,’ Peter had told me. ‘My father carried it to an obsession. He would disappear into his club for days.’ It was a folly he was not immune to himself; I had seen his eyes glitter as he took his place at the card-table with Dolly.

  Tonight, however, the thick and increasing fog was keeping Dolly at home, thus depriving her of her favourite occupation. But she had had the card-table set out and was shuffling the cards hopefully. ‘Perhaps someone will call and I will get a game.’ She knew better than to ask Ariadne and me to take a hand. Edward Lacey could play as keen a game as any Russian, but he was on duty at his sister’s tonight.

  ‘I’ve heard from your sister, a delightful letter. What a charming girl she must be. Looks forward to coming here for your wedding, excited at the prospect. The letter was written on her honeymoon.’ Dolly’s tone expressed wonder at this; and it was a remarkable phenomenon coming from my sister. Archie must be exercising an improving influence.

  ‘I know. I have had a letter also.’ To me, Grizel had expressed her pleasure and excitement at coming to St Petersburg. ‘Fancy you, married, and in such a remarkable way. Oh, we shall certainly come. Archie says he wouldn’t deprive me of the pleasure of seeing you for all the worl
d, and that for his part it will be well worth his knowing Russia as he means to specialize in foreign affairs when he gets into the House. Of course, we pay our own expenses and don’t accept your Peter’s kind offer and all that. Archie says we can easily stand it.’ Which I did not believe, but I had never expected other from her Archie.

  Grizel had seemed happy and pleased with her lot, although venturing the comment that honeymoons were ‘mixed blessings’. At the end of her letter she had scrawled: ‘What about Tib and your wedding, Rose? She’s very cutup.’

  Peter Alexandrov had advised me to order a motor-car from France – coach-work to be made in London – and an opal parure was being re-set for me at Fabergé’s (only I have never liked opals, thinking them unlucky), so in every material way I was a lucky girl; but about Tibby’s coming he remained adamant. ‘Not until I have been married to you for a very long time. I am frightened of her power over you.’

  I had learned already that he was a hard man to influence, he had a way of disappearing into his own thoughts that baffled me. He was away a good deal lately, ‘attending to affairs’ as he put it. I was alone more than I had expected to be. Oddly, I began to feel very lonely. Even at the Gowrie Works, where I still went, I felt lonely. They seemed to trust me less, not more. ‘I’m marrying because of this place,’ I felt like saying. ‘Aren’t you grateful to me?’

  ‘Are you getting anywhere with your enquiry about the explosive, Peter?’ I asked him after one of his absences. ‘Do you think any has been stolen? And if so, what am I to do?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I have it in train. It is easier for me as a Russian than for you.’

  ‘But has any been stolen?’ I pressed him. He did not really answer, which I suppose was answer enough, and bothered me.

  One day, walking into my room, I found a strange servant waiting there for his orders.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Augustus, madam, your new servant.’ And he bowed. He was a small, thin-featured man, of German birth as I later learned.