by Judith Gould
At precisely the same moment that Senda took her last curtain call, ten sticks of dynamite exploded across the Neva at the base of the Troitekoi Bridge.
The resulting explosion killed no one and the bridge survived the blast, but Count Kokovtsov's spies had seen to it that the secret police waited in ambush. They killed every anarchist but Schmarya, and as it turned out, his dead friends had been lucky.
Chapter 15
The Prince was impatient. It was not patently obvious, but Count Kokovtsov had learned to recognize the symptoms: the irregular tic in his cheekbones, the shortened attention span, the set frown on his face. Finally, the intensity of the impatience took a blatant, uncharacteristic turn: Vaslav Danilov moved to the windows overlooking the drive and parted the curtains. A reedy sigh escaped his lips.
'She will soon be here,' the Count assured his cousin confidently. He was sitting comfortably in an armchair sipping his tea from a delicate Sèvres cup.
'I am beginning to wonder,' the Prince said slowly. He turned away from the window and took a seat. 'She is not like the others.'
'Unpredictable though she may be, you should bear in mind that she is nevertheless a woman. And women tend to follow their hearts. Their emotions.'
'Perhaps she did not see the newspapers?'
'That is highly unlikely. After all, yesterday was her debut performance at the Théâtre Français. Since she is an actress, and actresses seize upon the critics' every word, she is sure to have scoured the reviews. Actresses are like moths drawn to the flame of publicity.'
'Perhaps she cares more for her craft than what is written about her.'
'Nevertheless, there is no way she can miss the headlines. They scream at you from every kiosk and shop. Under ordinary circumstances, the item might have been buried. Unrest, bombings, and assassination attempts have become so commonplace that it is beneficial for us to bury such items to keep the general public from getting ideas. Luckily, we can influence the major newspapers in this town, so it was easy to splash her brother-in-law's name across the headlines.'
'Still, why should she come to me?'
'Really, Vaslav.' Count Kokovtsov laughed softly. 'Since I have seen to it that she will get no answers at the prison, she has no choice. You are the only person in a position to help her. She will turn to you.'
At that moment there was a soft knock at the door. Both men turned to face the majordomo. 'Excuse me, your Highness, but something . . . well, highly irregular has occurred. A young woman has come to call, without an appointment or even a calling card. She said you would see her.'
'Indeed. It would not be Madame Bora, by any chance?'
The majordomo looked surprised. 'Yes, your Highness.'
'In that case, send her up,' the Prince said. He turned to his cousin, who could barely mask his triumph. 'I will see you later, Mordka. I want to be alone with her.'
The Count nodded lugubriously. 'Of course.' He put down his cup and saucer, rose to his feet, and left the room.
Several minutes later, Senda was shown into the study by the majordomo. Hearing her arrive, the Prince rose and advanced toward her. 'Madame Bora,' he said, feigning surprise. 'What a pleasure that you should visit!'
'Your Highness,' Senda murmured in a lacklustre voice, her fingers twisting the thin silver ring on one hand in agitation.
'Please, have a seat.' He waved toward the armchair Count Kokovtsov had vacated only minutes before and waited until she was seated before he sat in the facing chair. 'May I offer you something? Tea, perhaps?'
She shook her head. 'No,' she said hoarsely, 'thank you.'
He studied her dull, downcast eyes and pale, pinched features. It was unusual of her to look anything less than radiant, and the compassion he felt for her was genuine. Such a pity, he thought, that this luminous creature should look so miserable. And misery it was. The serene spirit and vivacity natural to her were subdued, so that there was a quiet resignation in her eyes, red-rimmed and hollow now, and a slack droopiness to her usually defined, firm full lips. Creases which had never lined her flawless face lined it now, more than hinting at a tragic futility and inner turmoil, and the refractions of light in her jewel-like eyes had bleared, causing the emeralds to become dull pinpoints of opaque glass. She looked vulnerable as only the most defeated can look vulnerable, and there was a kind of wild desperation and pent-up helplessness underlying it all. She had the look of a woman at the end of her tether.
He moved his chair closer. 'You do not look well,' he said gravely.
She turned to him sharply, her body tensed, as if preparing for a high-pitched battle, but she sighed and seemed to crumple within herself. 'No, I suppose I don't.' She met his gaze directly. 'Something . . . terrible has happened.'
'But I heard you had a great success last night. All St. Petersburg is talking.'
'Are they?' She sighed again, twisting the ring some more. She had all but forgotten her triumph the previous night.
'Would you like to tell me what is wrong?'
She nodded, tucking her chin into her chest. 'I know it is forward of me to have come.'
'Ah, but you are always welcome here. I thought I made that quite plain.'
'But I have no right to come and beg favours of you.'
'On the contrary,' he said expansively, lighting a cigarette and exhaling a plume of smoke. 'You don't strike me as the type of woman who begs. You ask, perhaps, but beg? No, I don't believe so. You have too much pride for that.' He paused and added cunningly, 'Nor do I believe you would ask for a favour without returning it in kind. You are the type of person who always pays her debts.'
She smiled bleakly and turned her face up to his. 'If I had elsewhere to go, your Highness.'
He shook his head. 'Vaslav,' he interrupted softly. 'In private you need not address me formally. You must call me Vaslav.'
She inclined her head, frightened by his easy familiarity, but not showing it. Far more frightening things preyed on her mind.
'Now, what is it that I can do for you, Senda?' he asked softly.
'Your power and influence . . .' she began in a laboured voice, then stopped. 'I'm afraid not even they can help me.'
'That remains to be seen.' He smiled encouragingly. 'It may sound egotistical of me, but I like to think that I wield quite a lot of both.'
She cleared her throat and swallowed. 'It concerns my brother-in-law, Schmarya. Perhaps you have seen today's newspapers?'
He shook his head. 'Not yet,' he said. Which, he reflected, was the truth.
'Then you cannot know that he has been imprisoned.'
He stared at her. 'I see,' he said at last, sitting back and booking thoughtful. He rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. 'And the charges?'
Her voice was a stiff, hollow whisper. 'Treason.'
'What!' He cringed. 'Good Lord. Tell me what happened.'
Senda quickly related what she knew.
'I will see what I can do,' he said slowly. 'But it will be very difficult, even for me. Larceny . . . rape, if a member of the nobility was not the victim . . . murder, even, are one thing. But treason! Surely you must know that the automatic penalty for treason is death?'
Senda moaned, her face going from pale to chalky white. 'Please!' She reached for his sleeve and dug her fingers into his arm. 'Help him, I beg of you!' She shook his arm desperately.
He continued to stare at her silently.
'You have to understand,' she babbled quickly. 'Schmarya is misguided. There were others. He wasn't alone. And he never, never meant to hurt anyone!'
'Did he?'
She stared. 'I really don't know.' She shut her eyes against the ugly thought, signed hopelessly again, and slumped, once more collapsing within herself. 'Then you think it is hopeless,' she murmured in a monotone.
'I don't want to get your hopes up, but nothing is ever entirely hopeless. I have arranged for pardons before.'
'Then you will help!' she said eagerly.
He raised a hand to silence
her. 'Please hear me out. As a rule, pardons are expensive, but not impossible.'
'I will repay you,' she blurted. 'I don't care what it costs, or if it takes the rest of my life!'
'Yes, yes,' he said gently. 'But we are talking about treason. You must remember, the political situation being what it is today . . . well, needless to say, it's an uncomfortable situation under even the best of circumstances. And the last few months . . . well, the powers that be are going to scream for his blood.'
'But . . . but you are one of those powers, a-aren't you?' she stuttered.
'An astute observation.' He allowed himself the slightest smile. 'But I am merely one of them. One of many. Others are involved in this. They will try to make an example of him. They have to, you understand, because otherwise they are condoning an act of subversion. If he is let go, then the enemies of the Czar will think they, too, can get off. The result would be . . . chaos.'
She buried her face in her hands. 'If I could only see him, speak to him!' she moaned. 'I've visited the prison, but they won't let me in.'
He nodded slowly. 'Arranging a visit should be a rather simple thing. But a pardon?'
'Then you can arrange a visit?' Her voice was tiny.
'I will see what I can do.'
She let out a long, deep breath, her eyes holding his gaze. 'You won't regret it,' she promised huskily. Then she swiftly lowered her eyes. 'And I will show my gratitude,' she whispered. 'As you said before, I pay my debts.'
He hid the smile of triumph. 'We shall discuss that later. Now let me see what I can arrange. If I am successful, I will send an envoy and a carriage to pick you up at your house and take you to the prison.'
She nodded and rose to her feet, her eyes glistening moistly. For a moment she hesitated, then bent down over him and brushed his cheek with her tragic lips. Her warm, sweet breath lingered on his face, so delicious and overpowering he thought he would moan aloud.
But he received the kiss impassively, hiding his emotions behind his usual stoic mask. The kiss was an unspoken pact, a handshake, a contract. She would honour it. Therefore she would be his . . . she was his now. She had come to him for help, understanding that it would not be freely given. That she would have to give something in return. And if one could not call it love, freely and willingly offered, then it was a reasonable facsimile, at least, and that would be enough.
Then, stifling a convulsive cry, she was gone, her swift, receding footsteps echoing her haste.
For a long time he sat there, sweetly drowsy. The room seemed chillier now that she was gone. He couldn't entirely fathom her effect on him. None of his other mistresses had affected him quite like her. It was as if she warmed the very air around her with her presence.
And now she was his.
His.
Unconsciously he lifted his hand and touched the spot where she had kissed his cheek.
The dreaded Okhrana, the Russian secret police, like its predecessors before it—and its descendants to come—thrived on its infamous reputation of omnipotence and horror. Okhrana, three short whispered syllables long on effect, were enough to strike terror in the hearts of all who heard them. For it was the Okhrana which came stealthily in the night and snatched suspected enemies of the state from their beds, never to be heard from again. It was the Okhrana which had on all too many occasions arrested the wrong man, dumping him back on his doorstep so beaten that he had lost his reason. Specific evidence of crimes was unnecessary: suspicion, surveillance, even mere unfounded gossip was all that was needed to have the merchants of death materialize. And the very word 'Okhrana' had become yet another synonym for 'oppression', for the sins and crimes of the Czarist regime. Always the word was whispered, and only after people looked suspiciously over their shoulders to make certain no one was eavesdropping. It was as if mentioning it too loud would somehow give it more credence, could possibly even summon the dreaded secret police by mere association with its spoken name.
It was to one of the bleak Okhrana prisons that the Prince's envoy took Senda to visit Schmarya.
Outside the fortress, the muffled sounds of traffic and occasional furtive voices passed quickly by, as though everyone knew of the dark doings inside the dank stone walls and wanted to put as much distance between the fortress and himself as swiftly as humanly possible. There were rumours that even birds were afraid to roost on its roofs and crenellated battlements.
Inside the fortress, it was even darker, damper, and chillier than the outside walls promised. Metal-caged bare bulbs cast grotesque shadows on moist, sweating walls of cells, halls, and torture chambers. The place was evil incarnate, as if it were a living, breathing monster, and the misery of its short-lived, transient population was scarred everywhere—dried rust splashes on floors and walls from shed blood, agonizingly deep scratches on stone from fingernails gone mad. Constant sounds of terror hung in the air. Ghosts of whispers and sighs. Shrill soprano screams. Hollow clanging ringing out and reverberating from around comers. All pierced by the bloodcurdling shrieks of agony, the cracks of whips and bludgeons, the reports of guns.
Senda was certain that if she had to stay here for more than a few minutes she would surely go mad. It was impossible to think of Schmarya being held captive here. The image of him running free kept springing into her mind. He had always loved the outdoors, the fresh air, the great vast bowl of the skies. He would not take easily to confinement. Nor to keeping his tongue. There was too much of the freedom-loving rebel in him. Surely he had already antagonized his captors. Possibly had even taunted them. Dared them.
The guard who led her to Schmarya's cell had 'Okhrana' written all over him, as had the hard-eyed administrator, the other guards, the doctors. No telltale uniforms for them, though the expressions etched into their faces—blank faces set with the terribly cold, unfocused eyes of automatons—were a uniform of sorts, and their quietly ruthless authority their chevrons and ribbons.
Down, down he led her on rough-cut, winding stone stairs into the bowels of the fortress. She had to walk with extreme caution. The steps were slippery and had been worn concave over the centuries. Claustrophobia moved in on her, squeezing her, trapping her, making it difficult to breathe. Somewhere further below water dripped steadily on stone, ringing out with bell-like clarity. Rats screeched and shot past her feet, and the further the stairs coiled underground, the lower the temperature dropped. The intermingling stenches of faeces, urine, and vomit were sickening, and she wondered why the guards didn't bother to wash down the cells. Perhaps it didn't bother them anymore; possibly they had grown immune to it. Or was it just an added torture for the prisoners?
The stairs, green and slimy above, had turned to slick, smelly sheets of brown ice. Something wet dripped down on her forehead. She glanced up and shuddered. The vaulted stone ceiling above was covered with stalactites of faecal ice. She wiped her forehead furiously with her sleeve.
Finally she and the guard reached the end of the labyrinth of vaulted mazes. The guard stopped at the last thick iron door. Heavy sliding bolts were riveted into the iron. Senda noticed that this particular cell did not have a pass-through window.
'This is it,' the guard said, speaking for the first time.
She watched wordlessly as he selected a large key from a ring and unlocked the door, then slid the bolts out of the wall. Slowly he pushed the door inward. The creak from unoiled hinges and the scraping of metal on stone shrieked with unearthly eeriness, the sounds of ghosts and things ghastly.
'I have to lock you in,' the guard said. 'I'll be back to get you in ten minutes.'
Her jaw tightened. 'That's all the time I'm allowed?'
'I think you'll find even ten minutes is too long in there.' He grinned, showing long, clavier-key teeth yellowed from tobacco. 'We call this cell "Paradise", on account of it's the worst of 'em all. Nobody's ever been locked in there and come out alive.'
She spun her face toward him, her eyes blazing cold hatred. 'Well, I know two people who will!' Refusing to sho
w her fear, she pushed past him into the small unlit stone-lined chamber. Like a narrow chimney it soared ten metres up to the ceiling. She didn't think she had ever seen anything so oppressive as this cell. She would never have considered putting a rabid animal in here, let alone a human being.
And the stench! It caused the bile to rise in her throat. Then her heels slipped in something mushy, and she fought to retain her balance. Faeces. Were there no sanitary facilities in any of the cells?
Behind her, the iron door screeched shut, and the bolt was slammed back in place. She was locked in. The cell was dark, with only the shaft of thin light slashing down from the single bulb high above. 'S-Schmarya?' she whispered tentatively, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. 'Schmarya?'
There was a sound at her feet and she looked down. The rat was the size of a huge cat. She let out a piercing scream and pressed herself flat against the cell door. The iron felt cold as ice.
Then she heard the moan. It came from her left. Slowly she turned toward it and sucked in her breath.
There had to be some mistake! she told herself. The man curled in a foetal position in the corner was not Schmarya. He could not be. Schmarya was tall and blond and stalwart. Not at all like this filthy, broken, dishevelled shell of a man cowering in the corner.
Trembling, she stepped closer and stared down at the blanket-draped man with an expression of growing horror. Then she blinked and gulped. Blood rushed to her temples. The room reeled and she had to clutch the wall to steady herself.
It was Schmarya.
Disregarding the filthy frozen floor, she dropped to her knees beside him and, cupping his face in her hands, gently turned him to face her. His eyes looked faraway, withdrawn, and glazed over in unseeing pain. 'N-no more h-hurt,' he mumbled thickly through swollen lips.
Somewhere deep inside her, a fire kindled and began to roar. He didn't recognize her! What had they done to cause this! What kind of monsters were in charge of this place?
