‘Waiting outside.’
‘Funny. I didn’t see him.’
‘That is sort of the point,’ I said. ‘But, then, he didn’t pass his final exams in shadowing. Remember?’ I waited for Joachim to laugh. It was a joke between us, my bodyguard’s failings. He had been assigned to me two years ago, handpicked by General Nikolai Vlasik, my uncle’s personal head of security. And despite our mocking, Kirvenko was in fact perfectly capable; an older man with hard grey eyes like pebbles who always wore a suit no matter what the weather. But despite his appearance, he was soft. Joachim and I had discovered this when our trysts began. It had only taken one pleading word from me for him to agree not to say a word to Olga. Perhaps he felt sorry for us. He likely thought our romance the stuff of children; harmless. It would blow over soon enough. Now when we met, Kirvenko made himself invisible, staying out of sight although I knew he would come running if I called him. I’d only had to shout for him once, when one of my uncle’s drunken friends cornered me one night in the pool-room of the dacha. The speed of his response as he grasped the man by his shirt and sent him sprawling into the hallway had surprised me. For all that we teased him about being dull-witted, it was clear Kirvenko could move swiftly if required.
‘I thought you might not come.’ Joachim’s smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Changed your mind.’
‘No, no,’ I said. I caught up his hand. His pulse beat, as steady as a metronome, through his palm. ‘Why would I do that?’
He opened his mouth to speak but seemed to change his mind. His gaze travelled down my blouse to linger on my waist. ‘Let’s talk afterwards.’
I watched him hurry to the ticket booth, a spill of dark curls falling across his face as he spoke rapidly to the female attendant. When he glanced back at me, he grinned, causing a swell of happiness to crest inside me. We’d been meeting here for weeks now. The last time, I had allowed him to kiss me in the shadows of the cinema while the strains of Prokofiev’s music soared around us. For hours afterwards, I could still feel the warm spots on my neck where his fingers had stroked my skin. Back in my apartment at the House on the Embankment, the grand building designed to house the families of Moscow’s elite, I hugged the memory of that encounter close. If Olga knew of my deception, she would be horrified. Although school had finished last year, Uncle had forbidden me to go anywhere other than to the dacha in Zubolovo during summer or the State-sanctioned dinners and functions I attended on his behalf. I would certainly not be allowed a boyfriend, Jewish or otherwise. I did not even dare to ask. But although I had found the courage to lie to Olga, to tell her that I was meeting an old girlfriend for lunch, not the son of a Jewish film director, I was never brave enough to forget myself entirely. There would be nothing beyond kisses, and I did not allow myself to imagine further. After all, I was Lydia Volkova, daughter of Piotr Volkov, Chief of Security, and though he was currently stationed in Estonia in a city called Tartu, I was under close scrutiny in my home city of Moscow. And as if that were not enough, I had been placed as a child in the hands of one of the most powerful men in the world. I called him ‘Uncle’ but in fact he was my father’s employer. They had fought together in the Revolution as young men and spent some time wrongly imprisoned for treason against the Tsar. It was my ‘uncle’ who had overseen my schooling after Mama’s sudden death from appendicitis when I was eleven. Uncle who even now controlled what I ate and where I went and whom I saw. I imagined it was my uncle who would be most displeased to know I was stepping out with a Jewish boy, but I hoped that in time he would come around to my way of thinking, that he would begin to see me not as a child, but as a girl on the verge of womanhood. Until then, I would have to keep my rebellion a secret.
Inside the warm fug of the cinema, Joachim’s hands were busy as soon as the lights dimmed. I felt his fingers caress my neck, his mouth moving to cover mine. He tasted of cinnamon pastry and cigarettes. I tried my best to kiss him with matching fervour, although the arm of the seat dug into my leg and my back ached from being twisted about. Relax, I scolded. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be ordinary. Not a princess locked in a tower. A normal girl with normal desires and dreams.
On the screen, Greta Garbo lifted a hand to her heavily pencilled brow, her mouth an O of pain. ‘I have grown up in a great man’s shadow,’ she cried. ‘I long to escape my destiny!’
I stiffened. Although the film marched on, the words lodged inside my brain.
Joachim pulled away. He was breathing heavily. I felt my cheeks burn and was glad of the darkness. ‘Lida?’ he whispered. ‘What’s wrong?’ A loose spiral of my hair had escaped its pins. He tucked it back, his fingers lingering on my earlobe.
I tried to answer but my mouth was dry. What was wrong with me? Greta Garbo continued to agonise as Queen Christina, the seventeenth-century monarch of Sweden. The movie was a re-run; the first time we saw it we had laughed about it, Joachim joking that he was the lovesick peasant and I the rebellious princess who conspired to change her fate. Yet today the words seemed laden with special meaning. Perhaps I was simply unprepared for the way our relationship had moved so quickly into the physical realm. Meeting for conversation and coffee seemed far less dangerous than what we were doing now. Kissing boys in the back of a theatre was not the sort of arrangement made by daughters of the elite.
Breathing deeply, I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ I was angry with myself for spoiling my few brief hours of freedom. Soon enough, the lights would come up and life would return to its usual monotony. I would take the tram back to the apartment, Kirvenko trundling behind. Olga would, of course, be waiting. Sometimes I would be allowed to visit our cook Zoya in the kitchen while she prepared our meals, listening while she prattled on about those who had been recently arrested for being enemies of the people or encouraging anti-Soviet sentiments.
‘They are parasites!’ she would cry as her fists pummelled the dough for our bread. ‘They should be burned alive for their wicked deeds!’
I would nod and sip my tea, waiting for her to grow bored and perhaps tell me instead about what life was like outside my sheltered existence, about the things she had done and seen before she came to live with us. Everyone agreed that anti-Communists should be punished. At least there were fewer arrests these days. Five years ago, it had not been surprising for me to come home from school to find our neighbours gone, taken off for questioning. Although everyone expressed surprise and shock, there was no question that they deserved whatever fate awaited them. There were occasional mix-ups, of course; that was unavoidable when so many dangerous elements were conspiring to ensure the downfall of Communism. Sometimes even Uncle and his advisors could not unravel the complex plots being woven around us. But there was no disputing that anyone truly innocent need be worried; the NKVD did not make mistakes, as my uncle often said himself.
At dinnertime, Olga would coordinate supper and help Zoya bring out the slices of thick bread and soft cheese, caviar and pickled herrings swimming in oil. At night, she would tuck me into bed, a glass of warm kakavella – cocoa beans roasted with milk – clutched in her hand and a story on her lips, just as she had when I was a child.
Shaking off caution, I leaned forward and pressed my lips against Joachim’s mouth. I felt his breath catch with surprise before he responded, his hands moving hesitantly up my stomach to cup my breasts. A thrill arced up my body, electrifying my limbs. I was not some captive; I was in charge of my own destiny.
The lobby was warm and bright when we at last emerged. I knew my cheeks were flushed. I wanted to splash water on my face but Joachim’s arm was around my shoulders, heavy and languid. He was wearing a smile and kept shooting puzzled glances my way, as if he was surprised to find it was me he had spent the past hour kissing, not someone else.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said as we strolled towards the exit.
‘Nothing.’ He paused near the door, forcing me to stop too, and bent forward to nuzzle my ear. A long art-deco mirror, speckled with age, hung over
a potted plant near the doors. I caught a glimpse of my reflection; thick strands of dark ginger hair coming loose. A slim face with a strong jawline which angled down to terminate on a decidedly pointed chin. My freckles stood out vividly; a constellation of tiny marks swirling across cheeks made crimson by our activities inside the cinema.
I looked wild and dishevelled. Even my eyes had a shifty look, the pupils dilated to pinpricks so the rich blue of them seemed to dominate, lids half-lowered beneath eyebrows the colour of strong tea.
Joachim’s warm mouth tickled my skin. I pushed him gently, angling my body so he had no choice but to move away.
‘We should be more careful,’ I told him. Other patrons pushed past us, eager to reach the tram stop before the next service arrived.
‘Why?’ He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Your uncle knows.’
‘What?’ I whirled to face him. ‘What did you say?’
‘Don’t worry. I think he got the message.’ Joachim smirked. He tried to catch my hand but it eluded his grasp, as slippery as a fish.
‘What do you mean, he knows? Did you speak to him?’ My voice had risen. I could feel people staring at us. Pulling him roughly by the shoulder, I dragged him outside. It was warm on the boulevard. The sun peeped through the cinema’s curled iron awning, casting lace shadows upon the road.
Joachim put up his hands. ‘Listen. Calm down.’ He straightened his jacket, smoothing out the rumples where I had grasped his sleeve. ‘You’re overreacting. I didn’t speak to your uncle but I took a call from a Colonel Rumyanstev. Last week.’
I tried to swallow but couldn’t. Colonel Rumyanstev was the second in command of my uncle’s security detail. I had met him once at a dinner and could still recall the way his small eyes roved about the room, never resting, even as he chatted with my uncle about politics in the Baltics and the backlash against the revolting kulaks in Belarus.
‘They cannot keep fighting us forever.’ Ice had clinked in his glass as he swallowed. ‘We know they are hoarding grain and meat for the winter. Some of them have started circulating pamphlets to encourage resistance. It’s time to shut down the black markets permanently. Even the flea markets. Nothing can be spared. Wool, grain, timber. Everyone must sacrifice, for the greater good. Look at this. There’s more ice in this glass than spirits. You see? We too must be prepared to set an example and forgo.’
A tram going the other direction dinged to a halt not far away. I wanted to push Joachim onto it and tell him to run, to jump aboard and ride it all the way to the end of the line. But I had to know what had happened. ‘What did he say?’
‘He told me the security detail knows everything; they’ve been tracking us for weeks. He said I was to leave Moscow. Immediately.’ Joachim rolled his eyes. ‘I asked him if he knew my father. He said he did.’
‘And then?’
Joachim folded his arms. ‘Then, nothing. I’m still here, aren’t I?’
‘But you won’t stay here.’ I raised my thumb to my mouth, tearing wildly at the nail, ignoring the sharp sting as my teeth raked the nail bed. ‘You’ll ask your father to send you somewhere. Anywhere. Didn’t you say he has friends in Hollywood?’
‘Like hell.’ Joachim’s face darkened. ‘You see? I knew you’d be like this. You see now why I didn’t want to tell you. Look . . .’ His face softened. He plucked my hand away from my mouth, capturing it between his own. ‘I will talk to my father, if it makes you feel better. But I’m not going anywhere. That’s what I told them. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘But my uncle . . .’ I glanced around. My chest was tight. ‘He will kill you! You must tell your father now.’ I pulled my hand free of his grasp. ‘You must go to his apartment at once. You mustn’t go home.’
‘Why not?’
Joachim seemed genuinely surprised. His mouth opened and shut, and in that moment I realised he was just a boy. He had no idea about the things that had gone on before. It had started when I was sixteen, when my uncle first began to criticise the clothes I wore, commenting that my skirts were too short, my blouses too revealing. To Olga, he had made pointed remarks about my ‘desperation’ in wanting to attract the notice of men. At the time, I’d been so embarrassed I asked Olga to let my school skirt down until it brushed past my knees. But the comments had grown worse as time wore on. The last time I visited him with Olga, six months ago, he had flown into a rage, accusing me of seeing men when I’d been expressly forbidden from having lovers. The possessive rage on his face had frightened me, but it had also strengthened my resolve when the opportunity came to rebel. If I was already accused of such misdemeanours, why should I not taste for myself the forbidden fruit?
‘They will be trailing you,’ I told Joachim. ‘Surely you must know they will still be watching us. How could you be so naïve?’ Through my rising panic I saw a trolley car approaching, its vague outline growing closer.
I tried to push Joachim towards it, but he resisted, digging in his heels.
‘Don’t call me,’ I said. The liberating sense of freedom – how had I ever thought that kissing a boy in a darkened cinema would be allowed – evaporated into the blue sky. ‘It’s not safe.’
Mamochka, please, I thought, picturing my mother’s face. Just allow me time to speak to Uncle first. To explain.
A word floated back to me, suffused with the faintest hint of night-blooming jasmine; my mother’s favourite scent. I felt her voice calling to me, the word growing clearer until it filled my head with a sound like breaking glass.
Run!
Tyres squealed behind us. I spun around. A car – sleek, black; a Packard – juddered to a halt at the kerb. The chatter of people’s voices around us fell away. A man emerged from the passenger side and walked straight towards us, his shoes clipping the pavement.
‘Joachim Sorkin?’ The agent did not wait for Joachim to speak. ‘I have a warrant for your arrest. You must come with me.’ He seized Joachim by the arm and pulled him towards the car.
Desperately, his courage fleeing, Joachim looked back.
Help me, he mouthed, his chin trembling.
His black dress shoes squeaked, slipping against the concrete.
I wanted to move, to do something but my legs were locked into place. ‘Where are you taking him?’ I said.
The agent pulled the door back. ‘To the Lubyanka. Go back to your apartment. You have visitors.’ Turning back to his work, he shoved Joachim roughly into the car’s interior. The car door slammed, a thunderclap in the silent street.
I staggered back, my head pounding. Lubyanka: the prison where spies and those accused of anti-Communist behaviour were held before they were executed. And waiting for me at my apartment, Uncle’s cronies, ready to scold or excoriate me, to mete out whatever punishment he had devised.
*
Olga was waiting for me in the hallway of our apartment block, pacing back and forth. When I stepped onto the landing, she shrieked then rushed towards me, her thick fingers twisted together.
Wisps of white hair escaped her bun as if she’d been sitting in a sauna. A house dress of pale blue crepe dotted with daisies clung to her plump body, the fabric slightly crushed. I remembered with a guilty start that today was the second Thursday of the month, the day she often wandered downstairs to the beauty salon to have her round face scrubbed until it was tight and shiny and her nails trimmed. With a sick feeling, I wondered if Uncle’s men had dragged her out of the salon to question her; whether my own selfishness had been responsible for this added humiliation. I waited for her to rap my fingers and yell at me as she had done when I was a child. Instead she flung her arms around my waist and squeezed me tightly to her chest. When she drew back, her hazel eyes were reproachful. ‘You are a wicked girl, Lydochka. Why did you lie? You told me you were meeting with Sveta for coffee. Now I find out it was a young man!’ She shook her head, her nest of hair trembling.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I should have told you the truth.’ I pressed the heels of my palms into my ach
ing eyes; I had not been able to hold back my tears on the trolley car home. Joachim was gone. Who knew what they were doing to him? In my wretched state, I had only barely registered the man following me, shadowing my footsteps. Not Kirvenko. A stranger. A new bodyguard. Had Kirvenko betrayed me? It didn’t matter now.
Something creaked behind me; I turned, heart thumping, wondering if the guards I had passed at the entrance downstairs had followed me up. But there was only the silver mirror in the hallway throwing my own dishevelled image back.
Olga was still staring at me, her lips puckered in disapproval. Then her face relented a little, and I saw fear creep in, replacing the hurt. She tugged me towards the door.
‘Your uncle is waiting to speak to you,’ she said. She lowered her voice. ‘Lydochka, I’ve never seen him so angry.’
‘He came himself?’ I tried to swallow the burning lump in my throat. Surely he was too busy to bother with me. He had any number of people to do his bidding. Was the crime I had committed so terrible? Why had he not sent Colonel Rumyanstev to punish me?
There could be only one good thing to come from his being here: the possibility that I could beg him for Joachim’s release. Perhaps, if I apologised, I could convince him to grant Joachim a pardon, or at least have him placed under house arrest. His parents might be able to smuggle him out. It all hinged on how Uncle took my apology. What could I say to soften him, to make him laugh? When I was a child, playing about his feet when we visited him, I had always managed to bring him out of his rage by flinging myself around his boot.
‘Dear boot,’ I would say, stroking its polished surface. ‘How angry you are. Why do you shout so? You must rest. You must be calm. Shall I sing you a song? Shall I tell you the story of Brave Vasilisa?’ Then I would feel the boot shake with laughter, the adult voices growing calmer, my father’s rational words easing the tension from the room.
But I was no longer that child, and he was no longer just my uncle. Now he was the State. As his power had increased, so had his temper, his intolerance for little things.
Lace Weaver Page 6
