In the end, there was so much to do that she lost track of time. Tidying up the hall and the kitchen, putting everything back in its place. Twice Dmitri asked her if she wanted to leave, but there was too much to do. Finally, though, she took off the apron and he helped her into her coat. They said their good-byes to Kolya (she shook hands, her skin wrinkled and waterlogged; Dmitri had another long exchange with him in Russian). And then it was time to go.
When they went back up to street level, Nicola was surprised to see that it was almost dark. The sky was a deep twilit blue, and the temperature had dropped a few degrees. Working at the shelter, she’d been too busy to think: about what came before and about what happened next.
Now, though, her mind began to race. Those texts – why had she shown him those texts? Been so intent on pushing him away? Bursting out laughing when he’d opened up to her, trying to empathise with her pain. He was silent beside her as they walked back in the direction they’d come. She was struck by how, despite her best unconscious efforts to ruin it, this day had been anything but penance – for her, anyway. But what was it for him? For all the hours they had spent together, she still had no idea.
Dmitri turned to her. ‘Thanks for—’
‘What was her name?’ she said, cutting him off.
‘Her?’ he looked puzzled.
‘Your fiancée.’
For a moment, he paused, not looking at her. ‘Irina,’ he said. He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Like I said, it was a long time ago. We were both very young.’
‘I’m sorry I laughed earlier,’ she said. ‘Sorry about everything really. I’ve been rude and out of line.’
‘There is no need to be sorry,’ he said gently. ‘And sometimes, it is good to laugh. Maybe…’ he hesitated, ‘it is something that I should have done a long time ago.’
‘Maybe.’ Nicola considered this.
They had reached Waterloo Bridge. For the first time since leaving the shelter, he took her hand as they crossed the busy road, like a child that he wanted to see safely across. Cars and buses whizzed past them, but all Nicola was aware of was the warmth of his fingers curling against hers, and the rougher fabric of his grey gloves. In the middle of the bridge, he stopped walking.
‘Look,’ he said, indicating the view. ‘It’s so beautiful!’
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
The city had come to life in a riot of lights. The brutalist concrete architecture of the South Bank Centre was lit up in a changing cycle of red, blue, and green. The London Eye, the high-rise buildings, even the cranes towering in the distance were lit up with coloured lights. A bank of clouds was closing in from the south, but in the velvet blue sky over the Victoria Embankment and the Houses of Parliament, a huge full moon had risen. Nicola stared down at the gentle silver light reflected in the ever-changing water of the river. She was spellbound by the beauty of the night, and just for a moment, allowed herself to enjoy these strange new feelings evoked by the man standing beside her. So much of her life was spent grappling, wrestling; everything always seemed like such a struggle. But what if it didn’t have to be that way?
‘What if it didn’t have to be that way?’
Nicola was only aware that she’d spoken aloud when he squeezed her hand, holding it almost tight enough that it hurt. She was so aware of him, his strength, his vitality – his vulnerability. He glanced at her and she smiled. What if all the years of hating herself, punishing herself had finally been enough? If instead of being trapped, she opened herself up to the possibilities that life might have to offer. What if it really was that easy?
‘Come,’ he said, his voice low and throaty. ‘We should be on our way.’
*
What if it didn’t have to be that way?
Her words – he didn’t know the context she meant, but nonetheless, he understood. And in that moment, standing next to her on the bridge, they had seemed more true than anything else in the world. In that instant, he’d begun to question everything – all the choices, the reasons. He’d looked at her, seen something shining in her eyes that was more than just a trick of the light. And then he’d felt such a powerful rush of desire… It brought him to his senses and he let go of her hand.
They walked along the South Bank in the direction they’d come. The trees were lit up with strings of blue and white lights, and across the river, all of Central London seemed to be alive, electric, with colour. They passed families, couples, teenagers on skateboards, the stallholders selling second-hand books in front of the BFI. The moon was a perfect disk of rock and shadows. It seemed to follow them, though the clouds were closing in quickly now from all directions. The same moon that had been in the sky that night… The thought pushed the last of the possibilities from his mind.
They reached the stalls of the Christmas Market again. The little huts were lit up along the edges of their peaked roofs, and seemed to be huddled against the darkness and deepening chill. ‘Are you hungry?’ Dmitri said, as they walked. ‘I should have taken you for a proper meal.’
‘It’s fine,’ Nicola said. For a second, she looked almost shy. ‘Maybe we can get something after… wherever we’re going?’ she suggested.
‘Maybe.’ His mind flashed with the signs of danger. ‘How about a coffee now?’
‘OK.’
He stopped at one of the stalls and bought them each a coffee. But instead of lingering, as they’d done earlier, this time he made sure they drank it as they walked. They passed the carousel – Dmitri felt a sharp pang of regret, remembering every moment of this extraordinary day. The carousel had been the beginning. Now, though, they were reaching the end.
The stalls of the Christmas Market thinned out as they walked through Jubilee Gardens towards County Hall. Dmitri stopped walking at the entrance to the London Eye.
‘Here we are,’ he said. Like every stop they’d made, he felt nervous. Worrying that somehow, he would let her down. This day had been more about penance for him than her, he realised. At least, he hoped that was the case. ‘Maybe you’ve been before,’ he said. ‘But I never have.’
‘No,’ Nicola said, glancing at the queue. ‘I haven’t.’
*
Nicola looked up at the vast Ferris wheel that had been built for the millennium and had since become an integral part of the London skyline. White steel girders criss-crossed over each other to form the rim of the wheel, which was supported by high-tension cables. The whole thing resembled a giant bicycle wheel. The glass-walled capsules moved around slowly. From a distance, they seemed hardly to move at all. But at the front of the queue, where the loading and unloading occurred, Nicola could see that the wheel was constantly in motion. Near the entrance, a board was carved with the Wordsworth poem ‘Composed Upon Westminster Bridge’ in which the poet wrote of the view: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty.
Maybe that was true. In the past she’d always dismissed the London Eye as something kitschy for the tourists. But now, with Dmitri, everything seemed different – unexpected. Things she had seen so many times before were suddenly brand new. He’d said it might be fun, and maybe it would be. More than that, though, she didn’t want this day to be over just yet.
She found a bin and threw away their empty coffee cups. As before, Dmitri found his way to the front of the queue and had a discussion with several of the operators. Nicola had no idea what he said or how he did it. But she wasn’t surprised when, a few minutes later, she was ushered to the front of the queue. It did surprise her, though, when the operator indicated for her and Dmitri to go into an empty pod by themselves. The door shut automatically.
They were alone.
Without any warning whatsoever, the breath constricted in her chest. A suffocating sense of panic took over her. A snowy night, footsteps… a hand on her arm… ice…
She went to the edge of the pod. Her hands were clammy as she gripped the railing, looking up at the ceiling until she spotted the CCTV camera. It wouldn’t protect her, but
it would be evidence…
Evidence of what? She forced herself to exhale, feeling her lungs ease into their regular rhythm. This man and this day had thrown her off balance, no mistake. But everything was fine. Dmitri came to the railing. When he looked at her, she saw the concern on his face.
‘Are you OK?’ he said.
‘Yes, fine. A bit claustrophobic – that’s all.’ She managed a little laugh. ‘What are you, anyway, Dmitri?’ she said, deflecting the conversation. ‘Russian mafia? How did you manage all this at such short notice? Or at all?’
His cocky smile set her at ease. ‘Maybe it is just the magic power of Christmas,’ he said.
‘Yeah, right.’
Nicola moved a few paces closer to where he was standing. The pod slowly rose into the sky, metre by metre. The floor to ceiling glass made it seem like they were floating in the air. It was a little disconcerting, but fascinating too – a perspective she hadn’t seen before.
‘In a way, though, that’s what it is,’ Dmitri said. ‘The choir opens many doors. We have sung at the London Eye. We have sung at Somerset House. At the Christmas Market. Even at Hamleys and Oxford Street and Covent Garden – though I decided to spare you those places.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
His smile faded. ‘Was it so awful for you? Listening to the carolling, helping out at the shelter?’
‘No,’ she said, truthfully. ‘I was just surprised, that’s all. The place wasn’t at all what I expected. It felt good to be busy doing something worthwhile for a change. And I enjoyed meeting your friend.’
‘Kolya, yes.’ He nodded. ‘Kolya is a very good person.’
‘Which is exactly what he said about you.’
‘Hmm,’ he said absently.
She glanced over at him. Dmitri seemed pensive now – had been for most of the walk here. Standing on Waterloo Bridge, he’d understood what she was feeling; the strong resonance between them was more than just her imagination. But he had broken the moment. Now, she had even less idea of what – if anything – this was leading up to. Especially now that they were alone.
The view was captivating as they rose higher. On the other side of the river, the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, and Charing Cross Station were illuminated. Beyond, the lights of central London sparkled like stars. The moon, though, was no longer visible. Thick clouds had set in all around them, and the sky had turned a strange purplish brown colour.
‘It’s going to snow,’ Dmitri said staring outwards. ‘I recognise the colour of the sky.’
Almost as soon as he had predicted it, the snow began to fall. A few flakes at first, swirling in the air, cascading downward to the dark river below. The lights on the opposite bank grew hazy and distant. Snow. Nicola breathed deeply. Once, a long time ago, she’d loved the snow…
As more and more snowflakes began to billow around them in a flurry, Dmitri’s face took on a wistful, otherworldly expression. His hands were resting on the railing, the grey woollen half-gloves now dirty after a day about the city. Those fingers had seduced her without ever having touched her. The moment she’d walked into the church and heard the music. Even from a distance, she could almost feel the wild energy inside of him, coursing, seeking an outlet. But now, as she looked at them, she frowned. One of the edges of the grey knit had curved upwards slightly as if a thread was loose and it was beginning to fray. He’d taken her hand today, in a casual, friendly manner. His hands were almost always moving, she realised. Now, though, they were still.
‘Your hands,’ she said, before she could change her mind, convince herself that it was rude to ask. She took a step closer to him. ‘They’re injured? That’s why you wear those gloves?’
Instantly, he removed his hands from the railing and clenched one inside the other in what seemed like an automatic, evasive gesture.
‘Yes,’ he said, still staring out at the view. ‘It happened a long time ago. Stupid, really. I was trying to cook and a pan caught fire.’ He gave her a quick sideways glance. ‘I have always been a terrible cook. I find that takeaway is much safer.’ He laughed, but it was too quick, too bright.
She forced a smile, but her throat had constricted. For much of the day his manner had been playful and carefree. But the music she’d heard him playing in the church… so dark, such unfathomable depths of emotion. The music held the truth, she realised. Those long, slender fingers. A pianist with injured hands.
‘But you can still play piano – obviously.’
‘I can still play. As I say, the injury was silly, superficial. Here…’ He unclenched his fist and pulled down the left glove. The skin was twisted and mottled by a burn scar that began at his knuckles and ran across the top of his thumb to the underside of his wrist. Her breath caught, but she tried not to react. He pulled the glove back in place. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Now you know all my secrets.’ The amused, mocking tone was back, but the light was gone from his eyes.
She laughed – she felt she had too. He was putting on an act for her benefit. She recognised that because she was so used to doing it herself. Projecting an image – confident, self-assured – and, above all, in control. She didn’t feel in control now.
‘When I heard you playing at the church,’ she said, choosing her words, ‘the music seemed so raw, so powerful. I mean, I’m not musical. I like music as much as the next person, but I don’t know anything about it. But something about your playing… it affected me.’
‘Is that why you came today?’ he asked in a low voice. She half-expected him to take her hand, bridge the gap between them. But, if anything, he seemed more distant than ever.
‘I don’t know.’
He was silent for another long moment. ‘You have spent a day with me, Nicola. A day in your life that you won’t get back.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you about the piano, if you really want to know.’
She nodded, suddenly not sure at all whether she did want to hear.
He left the railing and paced back and forth in the pod, as if debating where to begin. Finally, he spoke.
‘I was nine when the Soviet Union collapsed,’ he said. ‘My father lost his job, and for us ordinary people, things became much more uncertain.’ He looked at her and she nodded. ‘But even before that I was the great white hope. I went to a special music school from the age of six. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t play the piano. In school we learned from a rigid syllabus, but I also listened to music on the state radio stations. Whatever piece I would hear, I would work out how to play. It was easy for me.’ He glanced wistfully at his gloved hands. ‘The notes just made sense to my fingers.’
Nicola watched him. He stopped again at the railing and stared out at the dense, swirling whiteness of the sky – it was like he was seeing a different landscape entirely.
‘I began performing at age eight,’ he continued. ‘By eleven, I was doing recitals and concerts at the auditorium in the city.’
‘You were a prodigy,’ she said.
‘Maybe.’ He frowned. ‘In those days, there was only one goal – to get a place at the Moscow Conservatory. And when the letter came saying that I’d been accepted, it was the proudest moment for my parents.’
‘It sounds like an amazing achievement,’ she said, with true admiration.
‘Yes.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘My father did everything he could so that I could go. I don’t know how he raised the money – friends, favours. Somehow, he managed it. Everyone was so proud. I went to Moscow. I arrived there just after my seventeenth birthday. I had never been away from home before. It was such a different world, all so new.’
‘It must have been a lot of pressure,’ she said.
‘I suppose,’ he acknowledged. ‘And it was extremely competitive. We all had to meet certain standards to keep our place. To take class and hear the others play was a very humbling experience. It was even competitive to get a practice room – a freezing room in the basement. At exam time there would be a queue from five or six in the morning. An
d, believe me, Nicola, I am not a morning person.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘There was pressure, but it was exciting too.’
She smiled guardedly as he continued on.
‘My first year, I did quite well. Though they did not tell you these things, in order to keep down your ego, I knew that I had much potential.’ She was aware of his hands, tightening their grip on the railing. ‘Then I came back for my second year. By then I had become friends with some of the older students. Sasha was in his final year. He made me his “project”, you could say. I was stupid, naïve, and arrogant, but most of all, I was poor. The city was so expensive, and there were days when some of us did not eat. But someone always had vodka and cigarettes.
‘Sasha knew where to meet the American tourists. We showed them around, translated the signs, practised our English. We took them to see the sights and also out to the clubs. They paid for everything.’
He sighed. ‘There were many late nights. I remember doing everything but practice the piano. Exams were approaching, but I was still doing OK. I thought I could – you know? – “wing it”? In the end, though, I missed the exam. I slept right through it.’
He shook his head. Nicola could almost feel the waves of anguish coming from him. Slowly, instinctively, she moved closer. She reached out and put her hand on top of his. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t pull away.
‘In early January, before Christmas, I went home to my family,’ he continued. ‘I was desperate to keep what had happened from my father. That I had lost my place. There were no second chances, and I would not be going back. That all of his sacrifices – all his trust in me – had been for nothing. But, of course, he had to find out. He was already in a bad way, drinking too much… and only the thought of me—’ He seemed to choke on the words.
Keeping silent, she squeezed his hand.
‘My mother tried to come up with a plan. I would take some time out, and then apply to the local conservatory, which was also excellent. Start again. Everything would be fine. But it was not fine.’ He shook his head. ‘My father became… well – it was very frightening. My mother was caught in the middle.’
Moonlight on the Thames Page 9
